Sculpting The Breeze

Sculpting The Breeze When the last remnants of sands have passed, And the singing nightingales, no longer heard, Unaware the roaring river runs swiftly past, The cobwebbed latent dreams unstirred, And speckled eyes parched from sun's last Glow, and the whispers slain inside deferred. Will the nightingales miss my wistful gaze, Or salmon fly like birds through air ? Will my thoughts be cleansed within it's maze, Or the restless sun seek a heart once snared ? Will a single heart, by my demise be fazed, Or a tender teardrop fall from eyes once cared ? Will my stay on lips be worthy of your praise Or have I failed in life, for to live I was too scared ? Or was it a life, just sculpting the breeze ?