The air is cold tonight, winged one,
and I am far too foolish to test the waves.
I plunge headlong into sorrow.
The air is chilled tonight, 
the sky is a frosty grey and I,
and I, my winged one, am weary of this shade.
The clouds are faintly purple, like the bruise upon my side,
and shadows hang beneath these half-closed eyes.
Strength soon departed and 
only emptiness takes it's place,
stretching across the desert of these skies.
I am riding high upon this wave tonight.
The darkness is most inviting, like the most bitter-sweet of tests,
it's misery is overwhelming and nearly always misunderstood.
My mysteries are unravelling, scattered to the winds,
by the torment of the truth: there is nothing, nothing left.
I am riding high upon this wave tonight, my winged one.
No breath to guide my faltering light, oh winged one.
No wingtip touches mine tonight..

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