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 [bad word]  
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 [bad word] 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.