And the tears are shining light,
while sun is high and bright
but I can't help and wonder;
when love had turned to blunder.
And as the moon is close and cold,
the dreams begin to shrivel;
they scurry to the pillow
as a worm does in a meadow.
And the tears are gone and past,
though the pain remains at last;
in the corner of my mind
a misery well defined.
But, what of the words of pride-
You spoke of me so many times?
Buried with the worm
my little dreams are gone.