Wind that creeps inside the hollow,

          shadows sleeping in the glade,

sorrow looming past the 'morrow,

          hope that only darkness made.

Icy fingers grasp the edges,

         of a dark and lonely bed.

Eyes that peer around each corner,

         in the labrinthye of the dead.

In the labrinthye of the dead,

        souls shall trek an endless way,

waiting for some sign of solace,

        waiting for faint sign of day.

But, the light has swiftly faded,

       into dank and bludgeoned earth.

Stripped of life, these apparitions,

      are lost victims of deception.

What is left when all is taken?

      What remains if flesh is dust?

Who shall say to love is better,

       than to love at such a cost?