The ink lining of memories drip down the walls,

Washed away in yesterday's rain.

The floral papers pasted on them,

Peeling with shadows of grey, brown and black.

He stares at the wall, and then again far beyond the window..

Nothing but the meadows and the hushed whispers of the wind

Nothing but the graying skies,

And the birds returning home.

Now that she is gone,

there is nothing but forlorn.

Life has come to a standstill,

a point where we all go.

When life is not living,

But surviving alone.

~Sahara~