There are memories clawing at me
The walls have marks on them as well
The streets are as empty as December skies
Now, it seems the orange clouds won't show a silver line

I wander through the breeze effortlessly
Pondering on how the winds blew
I had the best of times and worst of them just as easily
The skies will be blue someday, not now

When we no longer care for ourselves
Like a twig that hangs from a tree
The parched crevices of a forest
Yearn for youthful streams

Much like how your young face
That bears a semblance of hope
Wrinkled by the lost fire of the past
I know an ember lurks in your wooden heart

When streams run through the forest
Youth returns losing it's maturity and ambition
Ceaselessly it claws at my walls
And those orange clouds are the ebbing slowly