Down, down, down the quiet lane.
I listen, and I hear tears
Splashing on the cool hard ground.
Before me lay all my fears.

Dreams donned dark blue as if dead
But too poor, pale to wear black.
It then blurs like a snowstorm.
Twirling, twirling, Jack of Spades.

I see my mother’s worn hands,
Red roses ripe for picking,
A horse’s gentle brown eyes.
A clock that has stopped ticking.

Tell me it will be all right
And take these terrible fears
Far, far, far away. Purge me.
For I have been dead for years.