The Man with Spider Hands

simple deductions

A lighted flame
A feather hand
You found release
in sweeping strands
Where were your faults
I did not see
A bleeding heart
that tender beats
And still your eyes
though salty wet
held no ounce
of soft regret
but said such words
as lips could not say
with folded hands,
you could not pray

Oh desert day, A star
is lingering
above wealthy sands
Have you forsworn
her thirsty lands
rising peaks, of amber
tones
Her knuckles bruised, 
to nimble bones
I bent my head, kissed
shattered hopes
What's left beneath
withering slopes

A partial song,
might softly play
with painted fumes,
of solitude
as gentle winds
caress your wounds
Emptiness
surrounds this place
as on that night
you spoke of things
And wondered of
the darkness there
you took my hands, silently stared

Who are you now, traveling satire
Will you return, with words of fire?