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THE WIND BLOWS

(Thursday, November 30, 1995, 11:11 p.m.)

The wind blows across the empty moors of my soul;

I am beautifully chilled and desolate,

Sadly shining, gladly gliding;

The wind blows and cries into the night,

Slipping his fingers through my hair,

Whispering wise words into empty space.

The wind blows against me, eroding me,

Devoiding me of emotion,

Devouring my existance.

I become grey and black, clouds and night,

Companions to the wind;

It blows me, still, across the sky;

He will not die, nor I ever win.