A Touch In Murk

The Hold

.

.

On a love-hill

In hand-held

Tip-toe

We escalated.

.

She sunder her hold

While I at mirth.

And murk

She took her birth.

.

Now as I walk on colorless nights.

At despair I close my eyes.

And I’m fooled by a touch.

That no longer exist.

.

The game now played

Life, at me they smirk!

A gift, a guide, or  a hand mislaid

This touch, that fools me in murk?

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