Time drips slow like falling rain,
upon a heart weighed down with pain.
A thousand thoughts fill up my mind,
but no place left for peace to find.

By the sea, the wind still calls,
whispering stories through hollow halls.
Beneath the moon, beneath the sky,
I watch the stars and wonder why.

My soul is torn, yet still I smile,
walking cold and lost for miles.
The sun once warm, now barely light,
shadows stretch into the night.

I hold my breath, I close my eyes,
feel the fire where silence lies.
A single dream, a fleeting touch,
a whispered hope, but never much.

My hands still shake, my lips still burn,
for memories that won’t return.
The truth is heavy, life is loud,
the past is just a drifting cloud.

Yet in the dark, I still believe,
that something waits, beyond the grieve.
For even lost, we still remain—
a whisper carved into the rain.

Once a hand held me,  
now I rust in silent dirt,  
spikes dulled by lost wars.

In the hush of winds,
secrets unfold, Whispers carried on currents, untold.
Gentle voices, like echoes through time,
Speak of lives lived, in prose and rhyme.
Each rustling leaf, a chapter's refrain, People's stories etched upon the plain.
An open hall where prayers resound, Their sacred echoes, forever unbound.
The wind a messenger, weaves its tale, Of love, loss, and dreams that sail.
And as it rushes, then slows its flight, It carries our histories into the night.
Wind’s hold memories, ageless and uncouth.
In their soft murmur, ancient and free, Lies the essence of what once used to be.