The howling wind wanders through the room
Roaming for an ear to listen
As it hisses its tune, born of doom
As the fire consumes
The blooms of noon
Of a life lived too soon
Pouring rain of the stain, of the untamable brain
Its sanity wisping and feign
All substance, not vain, pouring through the drain of the insane
In spite, the sight of untouchable night
It breaks for flight
For the solace of slight
