In the darkness of night,
and the silence of fright,
Do you hear the monters feed,
as sweat drips down in one or two beads.
#
If trust is an act,
and lying its kin,
then you my good fellow,
are an expert at such a sin.
#
The drip of liquid,
The howl of loss,
His are wide,
then begin to gloss.
#
We are only pieces,
pieces of a greater cause,
That why we seek and learn,
as we try to find some faws.
#
Autumn is a season,
a season I hold dear,
but when the birds die,
there is no music to hear.
