The soft melodies like snowflakes in the wind's control,
Breezing past my ears in that familiar way,
Songs heard before, night and day,
Somewhat sad when they touch my ears to remind me,
That the memory is still there as clear as can be,
But the memory weighs much less when carried by the tunes,
Than when it burned alone in the deserts and the dunes,
Lost in imagination,
By simple songs played at the radio station,
The songs tell their own story when the snow falls and the rain pours,
But listen enough, and they begin to tell yours,
What do you do when the memory is gone,
And all you have left is the song?
Only left to be sang or replayed,
Why couldn't the end have just been delayed?
Why couldn't the memory have lived with a song that never stopped playing?
Someone surely knows, but isn't saying,
Time is a play list, I know this can't be wrong,
I'll relive the memory if I can just find my song.