What is left of the past,
When we walk down the streets,
The ones we lived upon,
And the seem to be an empty memory.
The faded pictures of people we knew,
An old recording of me and you.
This familiar world is lost in the distance,
The victim of the fire lit by resistance.
Now what is left,
A colorless world,
Of forgotten memories,
And unspoken words.
So I wander down the blackened street,
Watching the wind carry a sheet,
Of blackened pieces of me.
No sounds are heard,
No light any longer,
This cold world is where I slumber,
As a ghost of my past,
A memory of my life.