Not Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

I Promises to keep was a lie, he had nothing. Through the woods. Over the river and into the pain. It is an addict's talk of quitting as she's smacking at a vein. He was always going into the woods. It was he who wrote,The best way out is always through. You'd think a shrink, but no, a poet. He saw the woods and knew. The forest is the one that holds promises. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, they fill with a quiet snow. Miles are traveled as we sleep. He steers his horse off the road. Among the trees now, the blizzard is a dusting. Holes in the canopy make columns of snowstorm, lit from above. His little horse thinks it is queer. They go deeper, sky gets darker. It's the darkest night of the year. II He had no promises to keep, nothing pending. Had no bed to head to, measurably away in miles. He was a freak like me, monster of the dawn. Whose woods these are I think I know, his house is in the village though. In the middle of life he found himself lost in a dark woods. I discovered myself in a somber forest. In between my breasts and breaths I got lost. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I've got promises to keep, smiles to go before I leap. I'm going into the woods. They're lovely dark, and deep, which is what I want, deep lovely darkness. No one has asked, let alone taken, a promise of me, no one will notice if I choose bed or rug, couch or forest deep. It doesn't matter where I sleep. It doesn't matter where I sleep.