This hand I hold, no matter what form

Is nothing bolder than non-existent storms;

Advice that I take, that leaves nothing in its wake

Is merely one of my many mistakes

A buddy, a pal, terms drifting down an empty canal

As I wait for something of substance, something to lean against

Do you know that I see nothing but me

As I look around, all through my broken dreams?

Because now this is fear, my very little dear,

Something I hope you steer very clear.

Because now I sit dead, in the end

Waiting for more than my Imaginary Friend