There are rumors of this man
He doesn't have a face
Maybe it's the sandstorms
Maybe it's the empty space
There are portraits of him that span
Whole seas in the ocean of death
Maybe he's banded from paper
Maybe so, but it's who's guess
There's a tale of another he met
Who actually saw right through him
Maybe there's ghosts in his veins
Maybe he's never been called a name
By those who may have knew him
When he rides by
he holds his hands
Because while passing
He sees the wind
He sees all of naught within
And sees it's absent plans
