It’s the journey and not the home,
It’s the sky but the sky alone.
Just fill my cup with little stars
And under my skin you’ll see twinkle scars.

Through rocks or angels or the devil’s fangs,
Through sheer destruction my hope hangs.
Through blinding bends of things I see or don’t,
It comes and leaves but stay it won’t.

From the heroes that inspired my little mind,
From the folks of a little evil kind,
From the pulses of that dying candle,
From the cracking of my door handle,

To the past of the future that never is,
To the present to which I’ve lost the keys,
To the distant horizon beyond the ground,
A glimpse of the final answer is to be found.

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