In side the beaten white walls of an mental institution
where people go to be uprooted from their delusions
Sat a man his hand outstretched as if holding hands with the dark
No spark to light his way, only the tragic marks his way
he used to play childish games by himself
look they say where is his mental health?
has it left him altogether why does his play childish games
he would call a name on the wind
for the child he lost unbeknown to them
Tilly or Matilda the ghost of a child of six
who he held in his arms before he was sick
she swallowed her tongue in an epileptic fit
but before then were eye spy and guessing games
before then were pin the tale on the donkey and blind mans buff
I guess we are all in a way sheltering memories like ghosts
In the places in the heart we hide
which we can never move away from no matter how we stride
or how many steps we take
life is sometimes an evil fate.