Windswept hearts. A gentle breeze which sings for the harvest, sweet melodies hiding in plain sight, in fields of yesterday and truth. Yes, the sweet earth has called for my return, sacred bells of autumn which ring for the distant past, a delicate virtue covered in soft dust.

I hide from this ghost, spiteful reflections which dwell in heavenly hearts. Each beat answers with aggression, a sweet taste of honey and grief, tarnished on acts of pride and prejudice.

To walk these hallowed grounds, lonely specters who have grown old with the trees. I hear the wicked footsteps, jaded lovers marching closer to war, each fading with the swift echoes of youth.

Our vision grows dim, a flickering of lights in the resistance of time. Never once has our grief weighed so much, a rusty anchor which pulls at our conscience, a heavy hammer which pounds in the factory of guilt.

We are no longer young. These setting suns have forgotten. Our love is no longer scripture, a dense chapter folded inward like a faded picture, memories creased and torn, frozen in their sepia smiles.

Walk now with me in twilight, beyond the shallow graves of paupers and popes, past those who scrawled their final words in sand. Walk with me. Hold my wrinkled hand. Touch my windswept heart as we begin our new destiny...