Hopes unchained, then woke up
to find no hope
Words could not call it hopeless too
It was a dream dreamt in human
thought
The all in it came from a language
The fear was make believe and
unsupported by a phantom heart
Could not buy a voice.

The morning in silence supplied
a time ideally spread
The heart was missing
The head tight and strong
Shook out all lows and heights.

If I be the dream, the dreamer I would be
My spirit would be my spirit
In a cycle, what follows is what is
The winters don't promise springs, and
Neither because of hope or hopelessness 
The spring follows,
These dark winter nights are bonded and chained to the springs.