When winds howl through the certain sky,
One can see nothing but I,
For when one hears ones own vision,
One can ensure nothing but precision.
Naught but I, for thou I go,
But for here they stray and to and fro,
For longings and greatness,
And of those in lastness,
Nothing feels but encompassed.
Withering witches watch willingly,
Longing likenings like lathered lies,
Slowly seeping soundly so soon,
Exits endure ecstatic extroversion.
Like the hut on legs,
Without a brain to say,
For thou she doth begs,
Nothing naught o' nay.
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