I am captivated by the silent winds.
They swim through our sanguine nightmares,
caress your very fears and hold them with beast like grip.
This is night.
Night, a simple coined term; if only it was so.
This is no night, it is our night.
The very night in which our demons creep and cower,
until they scream and scutter.
Until evil consumes us.
Blood swims along suburban streets.
The odd corpses discarded,
like child with their bike.
Happy lives, cut down by night.
Hope is dripping out of out minds,
like solemn rain drops after a storm.
We are afraid, yet we are more afraid
of our fear more than anything else.
We must remember,
the night is always darkest before the dawn.
I cling to the fabrics of existant.
Upon forgotten hills,
on once named lands.
Waiting. Waiting for our dawm.
Our Salvation.
