The Promise

Winds rain down the many wishes hidden in your sorrrow

I feel them in the passing time, and the coldness of this season.

We wander as spirits do across this plain and know eachother as such.

Never did we ask the reason why, and it is the finger of blame that cuts the cord.

The wolves are howling in confusion, " What has the night done to me? "

Living in the passion of disscernment, the teeth are singing of the weak.

And as our boddies tremble, I ask, was any of this a lie?