And the wind outside, it’s speaks against the window frame,

a reflection of the desolate mind.

the quiet pedestrian who ventures in the dark,

avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk, they stroll,

they watch the grass blow in the night,

swaying in the light of the moon.

The cars on the freeway will howl,

the silence polluted, the mind unempty and yet, dead,

like a lethargic bug, crawling along the dirt,

overtired and yet unsleeping.