When she rambles on

She leaves a trail of hand picked flowers

The wind blows them out from behind her ear

When it whispers sweet nothings and tosses her hair

They are dead by the time he finds them.

She waters the earth with her pillowcase tears,

Yes, spring is at the heels of her sorrow.

The same way she loves the darkest hour of the night

That promises the sun and another tomorrow.

To her, the past is perfect,

The future is open,

And right now has no ceiling.

There is no land that is home

For a wandering soul

For home is just a feeling.

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