Nothing Left

there is nothing left

on which to hold,

nighttime breezes,

blowing softly

though open windows,

cool and fresh,

like some distant friend,

calling us back,

down this road

to a distant home,

known and departed

so very long ago;

let it flow,

feel its pain,

crying deep within,

it is here,

the answers wait,

silently,

innocent and pure,

without shame;

without accusations.

.

.