Night Mare. 

The taste of winter rain 
Is far gentler than the shame,
Of helplessness and hurt of yesterdays,
Behind the subterfuge that's played
With a mirror for a face,
Until a darkness turns the reflections ease away, 
When the night mare runs again.

And her hoof beats fall
Like the promise of a storm
When the night mare runs again.

And the sound of falling leaves,
Is more deafening than dreams 
Of soundless screams without release.
That endlessly replay,
Laying in wait to taunt and rake 
The embers scarring flames to scour hope of escape,
When the night mare runs again.

And her hoof beats fall
Like the promise of a storm
When the night mare runs again.

The smell of woodland decay
Is more insistent in it's way,
Than the corruption of the sanctity of mind. 
That breaks before the shores of blame,
On rocks cast down in a cruel age. 
A broken piece for each remembered crime of hate. 
When the night mare runs again.

And her hoof beats fall
Like the promise of a storm
When the night mare runs again.

The beauty of the dawn's song lilt,
Seductively allays the guilt,
It's touch: the very balm of reasons will,
Sets to right the wrongs. It mends
The dignity that colder memories tend,
Their music influence diminishes in strength,
Until the night mare runs again. 

And her hoof beats fall
Like the promise of a storm
When the night mare runs again.