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