It's frantic but soothing,
Romantic but brooding,
The Whispers of the sky that whirl the clouds,
Whisp within the broken hearts,
Profound melancholy,
Our yearns,
The perpetually tragic night earns,
Thus the moon shys away,
Bribing the clouds to have it's say,
The clouds form the quit to free the moon from its guilt,
Hiding it away,
But I hope to see the moon as clear as sun,
Who knows it's worshipped,
Spilled into words of praise,
Whilst the moon sighs in envy,
Eluding jealousy a tale so refined,
Forged within sorrows it steals the light,
Wishing for the sun to set so it can have it's rise,

My heart is breaking because it relies on the futility of my nature,
I fear,
My nature's rigidness to accept oblivion,
Will cause me to loose something very dear,
How long should I run knowing that I'll be caught?,
In my own tragic tale and the borders of my mind,
What I have become is my biggest failure,
I cannot support myself,
Neither do I wish myself well,
Until embraced by tides of warmth,
That have yet to approach,
As what simmers in the ocean of memories is beyond my control,
And helplessly I continue to cherish that one memory of warmth.

If living life is a duty,
I have failed miserably in carrying it out,
Like a warrior with no courage at heart,
The sight unseen leaves me with a wish to depart,
I reside on a battlefield,
Petrified for my life,
Alas,
The idea of survival seems more enticing than success,
I am living perfectly the life you wish for me to live,
Like a soldier on A battle with themselves,
But if I accept it's your triumph,
But I don't value me enough to struggle,
For myself,

I overpour with secrets of myraid temptations,
So foul it would make one's mind sway,
And simmer satans glee,
So raw,
They associate blood with lust,
And flesh and skin as an element of desire and worship,
So menacing yet delightful,
Pleasure that Involves both the extremes,
A symphony of constant humiliation,
On his knees shall he reside,
Begging to unearth more of the pleasure,
It's permanent reminder on his body shall remain,
In the form of a scar,
Reminding him of the pleasure and pain,

I desire to create,
What remains unperceived,
Unrepairable faith in it's authentic self,
Unscathed by anothers opinion or morals,
Their hopes and desires,
The birth of such a rebellious idea remains unearthed,
I want it raw,
But God despises it,
The idea of being challenged,
So all left of my thoughts is the binding vision of tomorrow,
A vision of hope,
That ensues an ameliorating repercussion on my mental capacity,
Concluding the idea of a saviour,
And Of my passion and greed,
Greed to learn something I shall never master,

My heart is stuck in time,
Praying that in all hope lost ,
a purpose it finds,
It doesn't beat,
It's became painfully boring and quite as a mime,
Avid for a pulse,
That alligns,
Encompassed by fear and dread,
It doesn't wish to leave whats familiar, behind
Shall it ever find gratitude in discomfort of time?
Or shall it face the unfathomable regret of a lifetime,
Is it stuck in repentance or greed?
In both ways it can't have what it needs ,
Induced by the futile hopes of time ,
It wishes to be more of a crow than a mime,
And hum it's own tune ,
Thats sorrowful yet refined,
A raw tune upon which others are adversity inclined,
Steadfast he continues wishing it's their music palette that's unrefined,
He sings,
Until a salivation is unearthed,
Until the trees dance and harmonize to his broken tune,
Alas,
He finds himself deluded,
In hopes ,
Someone would discern his tune to be a pleasant produce of time ,

Shall the cries of the dead be heard?
When the world quites down,
Do the weeping winds coax their pain?
Seeping the ground for their comfort,
Will the rain find it's purpose then?
Will it be happy knowing it's not just a source of shallow joy for the living?
Will the clouds stop crying?
Out of pity for the dead,
once alive,
Does the sun apprise us of the regret of the day before or the one ahead,
Does it pity the ones it doesn't serve,
The ones dead