Home is an illusion, it's a longing of the blind;
when trapped inside a whirlwind life that's never true or kind.
But by silencing the mind, you might catch a falling star
high or low, near or far, be it right there where you are!

So click your heels and spite the wind or laugh until you cry,
for your home is where the heart is and the harder that you try,
to hold on to possessions then the further you will fly,
far away from sanctuary under grey and gloomy sky.

Until that day, just drift away, or else believe the dream,
where there's nothing as it seems, but a world of muffled screams.
Or rip apart the seams, to examine threads from past
that unravel oh so fast, when your fear is faced at last.

Now did you find that promised land that shimmered just like glass?
Or simonize those sullen eyes inside tornadoes mass?
Where falling stars conceal the scars of rust and tarnished brass
when the longing for desire leads to expectation's ash.

(So when the wind will finally sigh to sing its last goodbye
you will understand that every man must learn until they die.)
But it's not about the destination or how loud you cry
it's about the choices made, what you learn and how you try.)