The rain is coming down in sheets as the dark cuts through the night.

The only response of ambiance is the ancient, dim streetlight

Shining into my boyhood room from across my childhood path.

There's an ecstasy to memory, and I stand in the aftermath.

I think of all the years behind: of how tomorrow's a new page,

But here I am in Framingham in the suburbs coming of age.

I can't recall all of my sins, but my soul is never on sale.

Ask me why and I'd reply, "How I've repaid is a gruesome tale."

Does love really exist out there? Will it ever come to me?

Knowing my fashion of foolish passion is a sordid side to see.

Victory, joy, defeat and hate: They contribute to the pain.

I struggle and fight to reach the light, 'cuz the dark ain't my domain.

Though sometimes it calls to me as I touch my other side.

A random selection of cracked reflection reminds me how I've lied.

To kin and friends held in my heart with solid fragility

As the Eventual Dimensional asks, "Is this reality?"

My thoughts teem upon the past; the future's a second away.

I begin to stare at the streetlight's glare while it begins to slowly say,

"How many dreams do you expect from a vigil, closed-off town?"

I shrugged in bed with nothing said and the rain kept pouring down.