ravhinnos

Sing, sing a sad song-- sing of longly hours spent in desperate trials. Sing of life being lost: life the flame of a candle in an over zealous breath of the wind. Sing, sing for the ages! Sing of war and destruction-- of might of power pitted on power of the terror that springs from the night. Sing! sing with loud voice of the years still yet to come. Of defeats not yet faced of death not yet embraced. Sing, sing the song of my soul.

The cold wind screams in agony. It whips through dead limbs of acient oaks. My voice rings out like this wind; on this wind. My innocence is forever lost; my life no longer mine.

The bird of summer sings no more, just hides his feathered head. The words don't come out right-- the melody distorted. Inside his nest my birdie hides from all the world outside; and in his nest, my birdie dies: songless and alone.

It was a dark and stormy night. That's how it's suposed to begin, right? Well, being night, it can't really help but be dark. And it is stormy. But it's not as dark as it could be...street lights casting their sickly orange glare on the puddles left by the storm that spent itself long ago, and whose second wind is petering out. The drizzle is enough to obscure the reflections in the puddles, but not enough to soak to the skin in five minutes. I'd know that. Nights like this call to me. Sometimes, when I can't cry, the sky does it for me. That's how I ended up barefoot several blocks from my house under a tree that was weeping its last storm