She likes to dream sometimes,
And we can’t imagine,
The things her mind creates,

She makes fantasy reality,
And we are stuck inside her torment,
When she can’t figure out,
What exactly to believe in,

Whatever pain she bears,
We hold so dear to heart,
For what must happen to her,
Happens to us,

She likes to dream sometimes,
That wings will fly her away from here,
And leave us all behind,

She prepares herself without emotion,
And our hearts are filled with dread,
As she imagines those wings to appear,

We know which world that she has chosen,
For we slowly disappear,
No evidence of our existence,
To be left behind,
Our hearts cry out in agony,
As our pleas fail to stop,
Her leap out the window,

She imagines she’s flying high,
As we finally fad away,
And her blood dirties the pavement,

So desperate her silent cry for help might have been,
If we had but been real,
Our voice would have mattered,

But sometimes what she thought was real,
We knew to be a dream.