Through Valleys and forests we follow the sound,

of empty song sung of crows and cows.

In places of freaks and dark realities,

we sing along to their frequent screams,

This empty house we feel inside,

is only the shadow of what is alive.

The chill of death is haunting free,

because it thinks its out smarting me.

Thinking back to the days of plague,

when innocence didn't cost a leg.

Judgements rise from ear to ear,

lets just hope thats no one hears.

A room of fog and echoless pleas,

we look around and find no peace.

Who we are and who we see,

are two things that will never be

what them seem to seem,

as if we where who we want to be.