When I lay in bed below the moon,
And drift away into the land of night,
My thoughts and journeys merge into a tune.
I miss all of the songs I wish to write
In light of all what is missing in the day,
I yearn to understand all that I've missed;
Those lovely thoughts that once bestowed my brain
But vanished from my soul into the mist.
Yet if such imagination grasps me here,
And takes me far away from where I am,
Then death provides me not with such a fear,
But the bliss of knowing more than I can fathom.
          If my dying hand could only grasp the pen
          To tell you of my vision at the end.