Westward goes my heart, where I know yours will not be, and though the road may be long, that way I will go.
In swelling confusion I take my leave.
I want none of this anymore.
Take me to a cabin in the woods, where the only season in circle is winter and its chill.
Let me chop down trees to feed a fire and let me forage to feed my body.
Let me be alone, to read, and think
To feed my mind.
And please let me speak with you once in a while, when I get too lonely; be around
To help me feed my soul.
I want to sit in my own little cabin and defrost my heart by the fireside:
The years have covered it in frost.