In deepest slumber, she came to me,
in the darkest hour of the night.
She was not some dreadful seraphim,
but a picture of delight.

Her skin was fair like an Irish lass
with nary a blemish to be seen.
Her hair was golden, long and straight,
With deep blue eyes so wise and keen.

With the merest movement of her wings
She moved so gracefully through the air.
I knew she was an angel, then,
for truly she had quite the pair.

I was enraptured by her gaze
which drained from me my fear and pain.
The angel of death came closer now.
Was it my time? Would she speak my name?

She smiled her sweet angelic smile
and shook her head. I must remain.
I woke with a start to find my old familiar room;
Nothing and everything was the same.

It lives in the darkness; it feeds on despair.
Once ensconced in reason’s castle
It proclaims the brain its’ lair.
Subtle at first; then it grows more aggressive
Your memories are stolen and your words become guesses.
We cut burn and poison, but as yet there’s no cure.
A date with Death’s Angel is all but assured.
Pandora ’s Box unleashed on us a world of pain and fear.
Hope remains our lone defense for all that we hold dear.

We all remember the nursery rhyme
with its pockets full of posies.
All together we would cheerfully chime,
our incomprehension showing.

Now, one by one, it is coming true,
Our fingers lose their grip.
The Reaper comes to claim his due.
To Death's tune we're forced to skip.

One by one they slip away.
We commit our loved ones to the earth.
Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down
Its scant comfort at best, that nursery rhyme verse:

Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down

In the month of fourteen, everything changed.
Then names from faces became, sadly, estranged.
One whom we all love has a part of her gone.
Not anything simple; not a leg or an arm.

Her memories stolen, her speech rearranged,
by a tumor that's growing on one side of her brain.
A stroke was the first clue that something was wrong.
In the month of Fourteen, all her words came out wrong.

The music may play and she may try to sing-
but the lyric is lost in the strain echoing.
I doubt whether her life will ever be the same.
Her husband is with her but she's forgotten his name.

The concert is scheduled for tonight.
I must cancel; there is no other choice.
I can’t step into those harsh spotlights
Now that I’ve lost my voice.

That golden throated baritone
Has left me, I’m afraid.
A vein has hemorrhaged in my throat
And threatens all I’ve gained.

It was the stress of all those gigs.
I never turned one down.
I thrilled to hear girls scream my name,
But my health has let me down.

Is it over?  I wonder
Do the doctors even have a clue?
Will I be able to perform again?
Is Frank Sinatra through?

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to **** it all away
But I remember everything
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liars chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
If I could start again
A million miles away
I will keep myself
I would find a way
Source: LyricFind

Sometimes, in dreams, Paul sees his band mate, John.
Of course, John Lennon hasn't aged a day.
Paul, himself, has felt the touch of time.
His skin is paper-thin; his hair gone grey.

Paul reaches for an instrument to play
but alas, his dream guitar hasn't any strings.
John provides a softly lyric line
so Paul must be content to hear him sing.

Paul wakes up from his pleasant dream
hoping to recall the words that he heard sung.
Somehow he cannot recall the lyrics;
It's not easy as Paul's no longer young.

Sometimes in dreams, we see beloved dead;
projections, perhaps, of our hopes and fears.
We imagine stringed instruments that gently weep
And, doing so, mock our bootless tears.