Like silent nights its stillness seeps,
accross the distance and waters deep,
one hears but naught except the breeze,
it flows unfulfilled yet unrestrained,
Longing for times past it howls and weeps.
But what has left does not return,
like a solemn book the pages turn,
tick, tick, tick the clock of time goes,
grains of sand through trembling fingers flow.
One by one the moments pass,
one tries to hold what can not last,
while the raging tempestous winds of change,
rake up a storm, through silent hopes charred and frayed.
And now at last the storm has ebbed,
All hopes have gone and dreams are dead,
one stands alone atop the jagged edge,
for one has only two things left,
one is hatred the other regret.
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