Stories told that we would see
If our eyes were not so dim
But in the telling we will hear
What we could not see to trim.
And as we whittle all away
That does not lead us to the gate
I pause to look around today
And feel the chilly breath of fate.
I could not ever hope to rise
On the road that’s marked before
But map in hand with spirit’s guide
I make my way to distant shore.