Blame it on The Wind

Slipping Through Her Fingers

How is it that I believe that flowers bloom everywhere she walks

But to her I leave no ripple where I tread?

Whispers scuttle through the vents, whispers about me

Why must I be the topic of conversation rather than a part of it?

Perhaps I am invisible, perhaps I was never really there

I am but a ghost she holds in an urn, with no intention to appraise me

She whispers stories of forever into the wind, but only for him

I float around her, defending her from any weapon formed against her

He floats behind her and receives nothing but the utmost gratitude

She sews his name deep into her hymn

And mine? Kept within, never to be mentioned outside of secrecy

He holds the throne in her castle of love and desire

I only haunt the halls

Still she swears that she loves me

And yet her eyes forget the silhouette of who I am, or ever was

So much time goes by, but I wait and I wait

Sometimes a crack in the seal appears, and I try to leave this place

But to no avail, I am always summoned when he forgets to douse the lights

What I see is a woman scorned, not at all cherished

What she sees is an ever burning flame

But when she looks at me, a vacant stare

A cold and empty shell

Perhaps I am invisible, perhaps I was never really there