Born from dust we paint a picture,
Time turns and the wind blows
the picture we create is our own.
For some solitude is a DEMONS LECTURE,
For some solitude GRACE
For some it's simple ALONE
For some its MADNESS
For ME it is the essence of SADNESS

Sands of time prove
into a world alone with trust we are drawn,
The picture always unwritten.
In solitude without a scribble we move
and sometimes bitten.
But on cold mornings not without a morn.
Always evolving,
So many lives the canvas can see
so many times the essence of sadness
creates a new time and canvas.

With the sands of time still blowing
the painted picture of a heart knowing
Is sometimes lost in a picture of creation.
But as time stands still,

Look,

The picture always draws a will
even after it's lost
the essence of sadness is the rain on your skin,
The depth of color within,
And the heart the sand forgot.