If  my path should be a river,
what a hazy one it'd be;
the banks shrouded in mist and murk,
the end nowhere to be seen.
And so I stray, a raft unmoored,
adrift and wondering,
"Does this guide me to a bay
or empty out to sea?"
I glance back down the marshy shore,
though fogged I know the way,
past that bend, above that fall,
a wistful dock still waits.
But though it's warm, and sweet, and safe,
the days were ever grey.
And so not stars, not love, not fate
could keep me there to stay.