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.