The best silence is the woosh
of wind through trees
on murky nights

My desperate thing
You cling to life
Like a wingless bird:
Free yet chained.

Where's the fun in being perfect?

Bless the sky when winter comes
and twilight sings a song of ice,
cold and pale
as its ghastly grip of death.

Embers dress the aurora on such
darkened nights.

A pale ghost dances around an oak,
around the Pantheon.
It's a ghost of my own, an illusion.
Memories seep away like forgotten dreams;
lost, like a raven in the night.

I bow to the Pantheon, to nature.

Late at night
I see what I've become --
A picture on the wall of death.
And I wish I could've not,
But I'm already dead and gone.