Underneath unsettled sheets, a boy lies still.
Not a light, not a sound, not a soul.
Dreaming of audacious adventures into the deep blue...
Skies, floating like a milky white feather... down and down and down.
Madly invented characters and a will to never drown.

Waking up in a bed of faith, purity and goodness, he asked himself:
Who else shares this galaxy with me?
So he went to the window to try and see,
A distant light standing still.
But not a glow in his universe,
Just the moon and a memory of a thrill.

The world lay asleep in field of reeds,
Only he stood staring,
Whilst no one else was caring.
Like a wilted daffodil on a wet Sunday.
The sky slumped into a heap and a black cloth was hauled over his head.
In the middle of night. Halfway to death.