There’s a graveyard in my house.
Dreams in the tears on my pillow;
Dead Dreams of long ago, on my pillow.
A trumpet is blown,
A grave is owned
There are Dead Dreams in my house.
Dreams that have Passed way too long ago
To be Resurrected.
I ponder to myself,
Shovel after shovel:
“I could have held tighter;
It could have lived longer.”
Dead Dreams in my soul
A graveyard on my heart
Crosses, tombstones rising out of my chest.
When I’m sad, I wonder if it is because
There are too many Dead Dreams?
When I’m happy, I wonder if it is because
There are too many spirits?
Dead Dreams in my vessel
Dead Dreams in my house.
My steps are never gentle
For I travel with force
They’re trying to pull me under.
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