The fingers on the window <br />disappear when I turn round <br />never have I seen them <br />nor have they made a sound <br /> <br />I know that they are tapping <br />Clutching, scratching to get out <br />For these fingers, they are inside <br />Icy harbingers of doubt. <br /> <br />The maudlin manicurist <br />tends these heralds of my Wraith <br />persistent nagging question marks <br />each one, denying faith <br /> <br />No sight, nor sound, nor pungent stench <br />No moss lined nails, nor knuckle clench <br />Demanding I must find the strength <br />To somehow set them free <br /> <br />The mirror shows a vacant stare <br />Perceptions delve beyond what’s there <br />The fingers on the window <br />May well be the death of me?<br /><br />Danny Reynolds<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/017-the-fingers-on-the-window/
