Ghostlimb Port Of Call
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
