Fingers; small tiny fingers.
Child like, soft, frail,
They run over paper.
white, crisp, new,
Thinking thoughts over,
fingers turned with the paper.
Smoothing it out, cherishing it almost.
Then a 'rip was heard.
The paper got smaller,
slowly-- in an instant.
Fingers let the ripped peice fly,
off with the wind.
Sending a message.
Fingers; rough long fingers.
Worn, dirty, strong,
shivering against the wind.
Old paper; browing paper.
Rough, crumpled, worthless,
warm in a pocket.
Smiling softly, almost bitterly
those fingers roughed over the old paper.
'Rip', came once more.
Small peices of the same ugly brown,
floating, floating onto the ground.
A pair of loaffers step on them.
Gone with a second.
FInally comming out of hiding
wind picks up the ugly brown and turn them softly;
the message flys off once more,
off after the now vained cold man.