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

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,