Soaring Terror

i heard the wind softly singing it's dying song.
to all the lovers in desolation, hear the wind whisper herself to you.
what seems promising is a citation of mendacity.
when all else fails, it's time to end the dance of hope.
possibility is not a question, it's a curse to continue deeming the impossible.
love is a drug of despondency. it continues to kill the promises of bliss.
to end it all and to surrender to it's supremacy, is suicide.

the chilling sensation of the ache of daily disappointments;
are maybe signs of condemnation to end the affair of endless queries.
the wind knows, because her destination is everywhere.
she has longed seen wreck pledges of love and lovers dying from it.
she has long hated love in all it's outward appearance.
it represents itself in great opulence hiding it's mask of abhorrence.
and silly people, they fall for it everytime love dances with them.

i heard the wind cry in the distant plains.
buried in her emotions, she sang the saddest song of the night.
even the creatures of the dark felt her sorrow eternally tattoed on their skin.
the deafening stillness brought tears to every living mortal;
who has heard her cry of aid for all those in love.
let the night fall upon us. let her song be a depiction of melancholic love.
i heard the wind. and i cried myself with her paroxysm.