Trail has gone thin below.
This way still is reaching out.
Reaching out.
Like the trees bend their branches over me.
(Burn the maps)
All this time I’ve been reaching out for a hand or a rope or something to hold onto in the dark.
But I know when the warm hand’s leading me I’ll look and I’ll see the Xs on the trees.
I have been this way before.
True air is cold and dry.
I was born an animal.
And wolves are only angry dogs who roam in packs.
Burn the maps.
Where was I when the call rang out?
Trapped in a city, down and low.
Wading into an angry fog.
The streets all look the same.
Their names I don’t recall, I don’t recall.
I was sure one time I knew them all.
But now the trail has gone thin below and if I don’t come back…
Burn the maps.
Over and over on my way back down the road they told me not to stop and turn around.
I am not listening this time.
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