This is it?

Years have passed,
Months swept by,
Days trickled away.

And then, stop.
Thousands of hope,
echod.

But, no sound.
No gesture.
Nothing.

Rolling, roaring thunder.
All stiffled.
Then burst out.

Tiny mist formed.
Gathered gradually.
to finally,
trickled away.
Wasted, as the day.