Cramped in minds which know little,
Dreamt by ones without destiny.
It is a trade of illusions and lost dreams
Of snow melting in the greens,
And realities thriving in unreal scenes.
A loser's trade and yet a drug!
A fool's verse it be though,
Coslier than gold, dearer than blood!
Kept in thoughts beyond one's mind,
Scribbled by fools who are blind,
Blind to plights so much their own,
We call it pain, they call it home.
A fool's verse it remains,
That the ink stains to show,
That a trade of lost dreams it is;
A little beyond insanity to know.
Hitch your wagon to a fool's luck,
A moment of joy on the silverscreens,
Call it a loser's trade, a fool's drug,
Yet the saga of illusions and lost dreams..

they keep running out like roll film before me
pictures clicking away faster than i can see
never repeating old faces flashing by
who are you? perhaps seen once in a lullaby
projector is strangely static - the cartridge drops
still it’s going and it’s going and it never stops
nothing! nothing but it’s all over my fingertips
smudged on my forehead and dripping from my lips
i cannot perceive these silverscreens
tangible airs or figments of my dreams
going and going until it tears and rips
nothing! endless nothings all over my fingertips