Were all crazy the dreamers the broken like children left
behind sad eyes are but windows  cast in pain.
that hurt we share as some will hide it away.

Ive taken the matter in deep thoughts and  echos of brillance.
Only to see it die as a spark  from cold winters fire.
Alone you here the sadness in the most gentle key.

As it wispers for the broken.
Down alleys side streets to lonley old souls
who yern just for someone to speak with to share but
are met with only rejection left to count the hours.

The clocks rythm taps slowey asking the emptyness to
waste in thought only to bask in dellusion.
Like a snow globe were caught in a vortex of a isolated storm.

Yerning for a release the bed is a coffin frozen are the covers
as the thought lingers if only it had gone another way.

But dreamers are gamblers and in the warmth of good hand theres always a lonley heart that had to fold.


The man in the street looks to other as others  look through him.
Afraid the curse may catch but in his eye's i see myself.
And  in myself  I see a victem of another bad hand.

Alone I know you in that place few will dare to search.  
The cavern of thought is but my asylum of  emptyness
And the clock's rythm keeps time in the key of night.