Maybe there is home for me, a place where I belong. And maybe I, maybe I will go there someday just to feel the weight of it all.
In my fingers and in my blood. On my shoulders and through my lungs. And I will sit on the chair that waits for me, so patiently, just wondering what took so long.
Once upon a ticking clock, with minutes old and seconds lost, a rhythm born that was forgot, but home is where the heart is docked.
So time, so time may come. Oh and time may go on and on and on and on and on. But I am, but I am forever just a piece of dusk till dawn.
Once upon a ticking clock, with minutes old and seconds lost, a rhythm born that was forgot, but home is where the heart is docked.
Mapmaker, oh mapmaker, sitting there with your pen and paper, what would you say, what would you say to the girl who has lost her way?
When all the roads are caught up in a tangle and the compass points north but i'm unable to see, to feel, to find a place to call home again.
And the clocks hands - they are taking their time to show which way the wind is making the sail pull the heart strings, feather wings.
They unfold with the hope that tomorrow the sun will burn hotter than the sorrow and, anything and everything is clear. It's crystal clear.