If the wind could talk, what would it say?
Would the lavender calling of time spent be sifted through like chatter?
How would it be that the time worth spending would end up in ashes?
Ashes at the feet of your saint and savior, like tears turned to dust.
When we go through the trimmings and trials that bond through the years
how does the measure of sand compare?
Does it ebb and flow like tidings and grief?
Or does it to dust like the feet of your savior as ashes and ashes we turn to tears?
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