Cobweb-covered fingers:
The flesh of eons
One might think was stone
As it had always been there,
Was in its perfect place.
Yet here it breathed,
Despite the dust settled on its skin
That changed its sheen
To a misty mirage.
Realising its aliveness
The hand shook off its shroud,
Danced from still to wild,
And though it moved
Until at last again
It found stillness,
It would never go back.
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