Illusions

Witnessing the passage
of tired apparitions
fabricated by these eyes.

Breaths of perfume
of the twilight's primrose,
reaped by the will to capture its scent.

Taste of a drop
of golden honey
created by the wish to taste.

And the kiss
of winter wind departing,
a desired, gentle touch.

I run deadening races
with ephemeral illusions
and short-lived signatures
conjured by these frail fingers.