Of ghosts and other supernatural things,
my life fades in and out of shadows black.
For in a land where rule the many kings,
I am but a peasant holding back.
And of the chords you struck by heartstrings pulled
I seem to hear the silence of it all.
You sent your help to seize and see me culled,
but long before I'd had my mortal fall.
The whispers of the rain that stains your face
reminds me of our broken valley song.
It's taken beaten joy and righteous grace
to know that neither you nor I are wrong.
In dark of truth I've had the chance to find
that light resides in fantasies resigned.