Whispers on the windowsill speak to me of you
Of crossed up lines and before times
And gentle petals on the wind
Dramatic times and growing vines
And whispers of Amens.
As Gods we walked the distant shores
History failed to record.
The truth it bore on foreign shores,
Fed to the wolves at best.
What? Why feed me this today.
A slap in the face, a missed place race
A forgotten dream and failed attempt.
Don't mind me, ironically, for I've nothing left to vent.