Fading from withered leaves
in silence dies the dreams
leaving a void, haunting,
long past the shadow
on the day-old bread

but there is no beast
beneath the bed,
just devils in my head
and the Cheshire cat,
whispering, strike one
from the bones of my past

with the chains of sorrow
perhaps a guilty tomorrow,
clinging to the sermon
of a false soulful hour,
in my mind's cold abbey
listening to the dead

it must have been a clarinet,
or a midnight train
giving me the blues,
long past the shadow
on the day-old bread