Wind blowing gently down a deserted street,
Playing with dirt and leaves,
Tossing them up in twisters,
Rushing through dead tree limbs,
Singing songs unknown.
A crumbled paper blows by with a picture drawn,
In red crayon by a child's hand,
Forgotten like the street where the only voice is the wind.
The picture is the same as it was back then,
So long ago.
Unknown stories locked within the paper,
The red makings of the crayon.
Untold stories in the wind idly tossing the picture about.
The harsh ground of sticks and stones rip and tear the drawing,
Pocking holes through the red lines,
Through the tales never told,
Piercing the memories.
What could the wind tell if it could speak?
What was the story behind the picture drawn?
No one will ever know,
Only the pass of time,
Forever unknown,