The paper was a bit shy and dirty from the past few years of neglect, nothing ever grew more alone and distant than the faded words of a poet unfinished.
"The cold light filled the night as a wolf cried out, the moons eye a ghostly dancer."
Now so it seemed such a sad thing that there was never to be an answer; time would be the master and the minutes forebode disaster.
But of course, never the light of day. Stuck forever to twilight haze it filled an eerie air.
I watched from this broken phrase all the while in a poets grave, rotting from abused paper.