She had a book by her bed, scibbled notes straight out of her head
Random jottings without structure or theme
Her sleeping hours here were told, as each page to me would unfold
She said it was the book of her dreams

It was the book of her dreams

She seemed embarassed and tense, said it didn't make sense
And wished that the book remained unread
But I craved for a look, for what was inside of that book
And ignored the words that she said

It was the book of her dreams

Unless it's written it's lost in the ether of waking
And the morning light caresses the brain
Dreams are a wondrous world of all our own making
A mesmeric idylic terrain

It was the book of her dreams

But something was absent, as I searched page to page
Where was my name in her slumbering schemes
Across a cheek raced a tear, and it became very clear
I was not the man... the man of her dreams

She had a book by her bed, scibbled notes straight out of her head
Random jottings without structure or theme
Her sleeping hours here were told, as each page to me would unfold
She said it was the book of her dreams

It was the book of her dreams
It was the book of her dreams


© 2003 Dan Russell / Steve Orchard