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