Standing at Dream's door

                                    
Nodding in a chair, a dead man owns. Drugged against the endurance of the pain and maddness that grips him, has become his life.

Before him a window of a world, wasting, crying, dying. Before him plays out an orchestrated ballet dance with darkness by evil's ends.

Opens a drawer that holds his hope, of a more peaceful night then the anarchy of the day...

 If I could, rings empty in his mind, a hollow vow, echos with each beat of his heart.