Birds flew into hurricane,
the angry whirl of woe,
someone threw them in,
oh, what an act of sorrow.

They're not born for troubles,
they're meant for flying free,
now they drown in gusts of fear
they cannot ever flee.

Some begin to cope with that,
devastating crushing menace,
and begin like its own
perverted view of solace.

But many birds seem not to care
they fly around in pain
seeking clear skies up somewhere,
where's better life to claim.

Yet there they are,
tiny hopeless beings,
that die when they tire,
seldom with happy endings.

What is a servant without master?
Naught but a tool lacking purpose.
Pathetic and broken thing.
A shipwreck in an empty desert.
Lonely jester at a graveyard.
Drowning in a sea of own tears.
Suffocating in the plain air.
Crushed by a hungry void.
Dying hope of a little light
Flickering in a sea of darkness.