I watch a young boy with a bag of stones In a car, I know that I dont own Its well past three and you phone for me To come and trace back the road I know this road it smells like storm And as far as I know its not home The walk it leads, through cherry trees To the holy dark thats at your door Its happening I watch anxious as you sort through skin And Im firmly pressed against the wall You crawl on the floor to a bag of stones And as far as I know this is home Its happening