When it's my time to go
do I go alone ?
Who's to guide me ?
Who's there to open the gate ?
Who's there to say welcome home ?

The days have been torn from the book
There's nothing between the covers
but that dubious look

No hands of man can reach me
No clock can measure
No wind will chill
No thoughts remain
No tears left unwashed
by rain

I will go to the music
I will crave the light
I will not fear
Nor lose sight

Between the day and dark
I will choose to follow
If I lose the way
It will be my sorrow

So let my hand go
Whisper something
beneath your breath
I will see you there
beyond the grip of death

Not all rivers
end up in the ocean–
doesn't make their journey
less worthy.

Not all love
ends up in a lover's arms–
doesn't make it any less
worthy.

Are we confined at all? Humanity lacking, where to find?
Stuck in this place, mind's grip, slow grind.
So much, myself, in this me-ness deep,
Like a lost limb, my beingness keeps.

Where's its place? This being's claim?
How's it all added up, this hollow game?
What if, truly, I'm less than I am?
Not real at all, a nothing's sham.
No I, no me, just not to be, plain.
Then to be or not, that's the eventual pain.

A void, yeah, us, a freedom's jest,
Not to be, can be, formless, hard to digest.
A soul hunting "what does it mean?"
But we're all the same, it would seem.
Simple, less, just the normal mundane,
We lie, we gather, can't wait to explain.