The wind whispers about a life that was lived
by the cracks on the hand.
There are no answers there,
of this I swear.
The poet knows never what he truly means
when he writes.
He cannot save you;
You're through!
The leftover words are lessons for others,
but not for the writer.
This selfish cynic cannot see the irony here.
He whispers and writes, but never with purpose or life.