As I stroll along the wayward path,
soured with wicked energy;
Which pours its fateful music,
allowing no road to symmetry.

The scene so dreadfully pale and white,
now wet with the drooping elm leaves;
My kerchief tied around my neck,
in the umbrella of quiet reprieve.

The planet grew surviving blasts,
its voices calling out to me;
I never knew the honor bound,
remained alone yet breathing free.

Looking back to pain and hurt,
feeling cleansed among the shadows;
In tumultuous gusts of eerie winds,
the precursors which deny tomorrows.

It only happens in such dreams,
the fiery depths of many hearths;
Complete the cataclysmic drought,
in ruination of senseless farce.

I only have myself to blame,
for a past that's ravaged and torn;
And here I sit and feel the rain,
in drops of silk from unicorns.