The trees whisper to me
In the cool autumn wind;
They comfort me within
And let me walk amongst them
Freely and effortlessly.

The buildings shout at me
Echoes from the roaming gas animals;
They make me fear myself
And block me from places I want to go;
They are the roots of insecurity within me;
Posters of praised artificial pseudo-perfection,
Draped on billboarded roof-sides
That give me a place to find death quickly.

A few more words written on a page, taken from my mind and thrown out into the open for approval or rejection. What do I care? Some praise for a moment; maybe a few faithful minds to ease my fear. What do I care of who cares? Why should I? Will it mean a thing years from now? Probably not, though I may never know for sure. Sometimes it seems so worth it, and other times I can't remember why I ever thought it was.

When the lonely arctic winds blew into the lands of Cathartica, it cast the Earth into an endless barren winter. The selfish winds were ruthless, leaving all that was life in despair. With no end in sight, Cathartica’s hope died.
In the early birth of another cold winter’s day a boy lies on a bed of fresh fallen snow, surrounded by the sleeping trees. The wind whips his cold face and his blood, dripping from the blade of his knife, freezes in the snow. The last breath he takes: soft and pure. He goes with his spirit and his heart as it seeps from his mortal tomb. The wind carries him through the bare, winter woodland, breezing past the stiff branches of the tired trees, and over the icy lakes. As the wind continues to carry him over the white lands of Cathartica, the endless winter season dies with him, for it could not bear the warmth of his soul, and with his death the world comes to life once more.
The arctic winds, after that day, never returned to Cathartica. The cold: imprisoned by the sacrificed dead boy’s soul; the protector of the wild lands. The body would lay through the seasons, untouched. For years, unmoved and unchanged, as life grows up all around it. The body’s wounds would be healed, but the boy will never return. He will stay forever in his lonely immortal form — keeping the wicked winds away — for the sake of Cathartica.

I keep coming back to you with a lustful taste
but the lust breaks my heart because
they are two things filling the same space
When my fragile glass heart meets the cold steel lust
It breaks and I'm left to find the pieces.
Lust isn't worth the savage heartbreak.

I can no longer feel the music
I'm bled dry of my sickness
That was me, gone forever
Cured of myself, all but this!

Missing a piece
That loving internal beast
That beat endlessly
Is now deceased.

Lose myself in the rhyme
Without my soul-guide
Losing all sense of time
A beat without a heart dies.

The sunlight breaks the dark cloud cover and casts over the valleys of my mind. Darkness turns to light, like the way water washes over a sandy beach as the tide comes in; washes away all the imperfections, the footprints of friends and foes long gone. It gives me freedom to dream again, unbound by uncertainty. Now my path is lit, and I can carry on without the fear of losing my way.

The dying day
and the newborn night
take me across the way.

I stop my heart
at temptations edge
learning down at the abyss.

I see all that I love
from days gone by
reaching for the light above.

Slowly come to life
resurrect from the grave
of memory, but still
it's all a haze.