Stray Sounds

Hazy pastures in the misty morning grey,

With dreams like dew drops on each blade.

We graze upon the meadow on the dawning day, in plains we once forbade.

We shepard no one unto their slumber,

For we ourselves are lost.

And when us strays must go under, our souls must weigh the cost.

Good little lambs are counted against the stars, but not the ones who've gone astray.

We go where the stray sheep heal their scars, the hazy pasture in the misty morning grey.