The dreams are here again,
drumming like midnight rain.
They have deafened my soul
with their din. I am in too deep
and the stream of sleep
has flooded my brain.
I am clay in the hands of dream,
my thoughts are a stream of pain.
The hours are a welded chain,
the bed a hollow where I have lain,
and myself the stain
that will not be washed away
that cannot be washed away
by the midnight drumming of rain.