Fingerprints
by Kyle Coldwell
Dense pine trees stippled the land
With meadows shaved off here and there
Houses elbowed their way into the fields
In hopes of gaining a share
The villagers knew not of what loomed over-head
They knew nothing of the days to follow
Twilight was their only blanket
But it was in their dreams that they wallowed
From the darkness it steadily hovered
The trees slowly lost illumination
Covering green squares of wheat and cotton
It eclipsed a slumbering population
The shadow it cast muffled the moon
Upon silence’s track it drifted like mist
Five peninsulas caressed the pastures
And threatened the town at the flick of a wrist
Pink wrinkles were canals to persperation
Sinewy hills rolled with great might
Until the anticipation eventually snapped
And the yawning hand fell from its height
Never again did those villagers awake
Under fingerprints they remained in hibernation
Floating amongst the clouds they fancied
Giving no heed to their very termination