There are those places,
Narrow and straight,
In which interlaces,
What we would call fate.
The soft warmth of Summer,
The cold dark of Winter,
The sounds of the strummer,
Whose strings will not hinder,
The softly flowing rythm,
Of lost places and faces,
Of those thoughts not easily given.

I am seeing visions of places,
Far from my knowledge,
Far from my limited graces,
That were not there to lodge,
Lest they be long forgotten,
In sunlit rooms of placid demistacy.
Can you hear my song,
Sung soft 'neath waning moon?
Can you begin to see what's wrong?
Am I asking too soon?

Listen to my music if you can,
Listen to my song if you dare,
For there are those things you cannot ban,
Those things for which you must care.

So I walk down that narrow corridor,
The one they made before I was born.
The one that at the end has only one door,
And its knob so highly worn.
I think I will not go here...
Not out of anxiety,
Nor out of fear...
Not my reality...
So I am out of here...