From the first coherent sentence,

there have been ink-stained hands

leaving prints on select souls and few regrets

using points and keys to paint the walls with the colors of joy and anguish

transformed to suddenly scribbling down phrases

in the corners of papers smeared with facts

that won't be remembered for next's week obligatory bubble filling

While the sentences flow like waves on a sandy shore

with ink that eases tattoos of Xs that mark the spots of uncontrollable mashing of thoughts

and wells of history so deep that if you threw a rock you wouldn't hear a splash

With yesterday's papers gleefully tossed into the breeze by another's hand

and the glowing letters of today that salute

forever remembering the stroke of a paddle and the hum of a silly tune

Until the final coherent sentence

when the tide recedes and the once sharp, crisp lines have faded into muted pictures 

the walls will be plastered with the prints of youthful hands, 

edged with creases and worn like the pages that ceased blowing the wind