T he past is grey
my faded memories have long since burnt out
like cigaretts in the ashtray on my coffee table.

old photographs still lay on the dirty street
as cloudy days and cool afternoons blow by.
Bare feet still walk hidden alleys, wet ground
beneath tearful clouds.
Silence speaks like curling smoke, black and white vision
hazey athmosphere.

Lonsome cries of the wind are heard
and as i shut out all the light in my world
I remember you.
-Silver-