Wanderer

Nast

All these tiny whispers in rain
too dismal to understand
but tell of the time you could shake the atmosphere with your voice
sending waves of tremors with
and as you stirred onward
your footprints pointed back
the dirt you walked
crushed.

All the tiny whispers in rain,
too washed-out to comprehend
yet indicate of thought, and want, and hope, becoming blurred
leaving the eyes that perceive
as the ones that don't
itself; the story wrote
and placed itself upon
the shelf.

All the tiny whispers in pain,
too faded to paint
the picture you thought you'd print on the heads of many