The bedroom darkens; sleep becomes a door,
where Elm Street waits beneath a borrowed sky.
A glove of knives comes scratching at the floor,
and no one knows how long the night will lie.
Where Elm Street waits beneath a borrowed sky,
a boiler room is burning without flame.
And no one knows how long the night will lie,
because the dream remembers every name.
A boiler room is burning without flame;
four blades rise like fingers in the dark.
Because the dream remembers every name,
one falling child becomes another\'s mark.
Four blades rise like fingers in the dark;
the walls grow thin between the dream and day.
One falling child becomes another\'s mark,
and waking offers no reliable way.
The walls grow thin between the dream and day.
A bedroom darkens; sleep becomes a door.
And waking offers no reliable way
when something waits beside the bedroom floor.
A bedroom darkens; sleep becomes a door.
A glove of knives comes scratching at the floor.
The bedroom darkens; sleep becomes a door.
And no one knows what waits outside the door.