Port of Call - Ghostlimb

Dirty nails never fail

To catch the dust that looms

A parsed out time, between the lines

In cloudy foreign rooms

Dirty sails never fail

To reach the port of call called home

With compass still, and where bearings kill

Any semblance of the unknown

The purest of the greenest grass

Lies right beneath our feet

Between the need and want we’re torn

But in bags we sleep as dead as leaves

And each morning we’re reborn