Out of the Mists

Bring me out of the Mists,
      Where all is shrouded in thought
And the seeking of answers.
      It is a place where knowledge
Flits just out of reach,
     Beckoning to me,
Always distant, always near.
     Bring me out of the Mists.

Bring me out of the Mists,
     The Grey King holds sway
Over my little boat.
     His words are smooth and
Silver toned like bells,
     Promising fresh water and land,
Sweet music in a sea of silence.
     Bring me out of the Mists.

Bring me out of the Mists.
      The Grey King keeps me here,
Fumbling with a broken compass.
      Vapors of death are in his wake,
Cloaking his darkness in opaque hues.
      Thick, despairing fog follows,
Ruining my map, dimming my lantern.
      Bring me out of the Mists.
   
You bring me out of the Mists.
     Light streams from Your ship
To my oarless rowboat.
     Rope is flung through the air
My lifeline: three strands of rough cord,
    Woven strong and true.
I grab a hold, and You pull me in,
     Bedraggled, bruised, and undone.
"The Mists!" I say, dreading more darkness.
      "How can we pass through?"
"There are no Mists," You say, bundling me in a blanket.
     "There is only me."

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