Whispers of the wind
Were drawn on the sky
Of the bitter mind you left.

Words of the swing
Were drawn on the lie
Of the sinner and his theft.

Poems of the lost
Were encrypted on the smiles
Of the blackest mind,
The inconsolable, misguided ghost.

Lyrics of the raws
Were sung in an old, crumbled swing
Forgotten in a pencil's graphite,
The Creator of the whispery wind.

A whole story was scattered
Like sand's little grains.
Each word was shattered
Until whispers have lost their shadow
A rememberance of us in a fabled meadow,
A pencil on plain paper,
It's all that remains.