Poetry

The wind whispers in rage
while with time I do age each day
when mere fate havoc play,
and I was on my way; was wet
the day that we had met,
my life was already set by grace
with a smile on your face,
we went to a new place for fun,
the day did just begun,
was hot with the bright sun, was fair
with colour in your hair,
a thing was in the air and gone,
like a sweet kind of tone
that had just moved on a page.