The wind stole tears of everlasting dreams.
Of life, of love, that’s often left unsaid;
where misplaced echoes hidden ‘neath regimes,
lay restless under reams of time, unread.
Somewhere within this multitude of cells,
resides the breath of every story told.
Like beaches scattered thick with stones and shells
where each presents a notion to unfold.
The eyes may close but still the wind reveals
contorted shadows from the mystic scrawl;
spiralling lost times within its wheels,
projecting shadows on a twisting wall.
Making sense where sense was bona fide
will reawaken ghosts upon the tide.
© Daniel Lake, 2014