It's hard to call it coming home
when I never really left for good.
More like coming back after a short time
like a car from the shop
after it wrapped a tree and was smashed
to pieces front and back,
where the owner fixed under the hood and took the rest as-is.
They didn't have the cash
to hammer out the body
back to something you want to see.
It's all like what I see in this mirror in front of me.
Scars from wood and metal, blind from windshield's smash.
Down a sense or two, I come in through the door
to find what I'm missing now
aint half of what's in store.
At night I sweat oil-like,
head on down to toe.
I hope I have half the heart this engine does
to keep on grinding miles out
or I'll slip into that unknown
where the deep dark night holds you so
tenderly
you never wanna leave.
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