There I am,
Staring at the snowy television,
Thinking about what was said.

I met a girl in my dreams,
Her name was Clyda,
and she stood under the cotton candy skies,
and told me that I mattered.

She gave me a cigarette,
which even in my dreams,
I can't stay away from,
and pointed at the caps on the
mountains that framed the horizon.

I'm really not that sad,
nothing's happened to me,
to make me feel this way.

But I guess the worst type of war,
is the one that creates terror,
on it's own frontlines.