Thin

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