The Fingers on the Window ©

The fingers on the window
disappear when I turn round
never have I seen them
nor have they made a sound

I know that they are tapping
Clutching, scratching to get out
For these fingers, they are inside
Icy harbingers of doubt.

The maudlin manicurist
tends these heralds of my Wraith
persistent nagging question marks
each one, denying faith

No sight, nor sound, nor pungent stench
No moss lined nails, or knuckle clench
Demanding I must find the strength
To somehow set them free
The mirror shows a vacant stare
Perceptions delve beyond what’s there
The fingers on the window
May well be the death of me?