The Voice/The Wind

There's a cold chill

And en empty voice

Up atop the hill

Of virtue and choice

A voice calls to me

And draws me near

And leaves me trembling

And swallows my fear

There's no sound

That can compare

To the wild banshee screams

That struck the night with terror

There's a cold chill

And an empty voice

Atop the hill

Of virtue and choice

Staring limply

Semi-vacant

Torn through discussion

I am lost

A classical fraud

My life is a tragedy

I am begotten

We are nothing

A sound, or a voice

Or just simply a choice?

A vague premonition of the coming wind

Torn by love, and fed by sin

Torn by love, fed by sin

Torn by love, fed by sin

Torn by love, fed by sin

Torn by love, fed by sin

A cold chill

A cold chill…