Cut away and shaped for change,
with slight of hand as I turn the page;
marching upon providence.
One leg over the beds edge,
as I stare through the pitch of night;
into electric dreamworld skylines,
and the storm at the edge of our mind.
Between eventide and the waking life
as I hold your hand,
where the world seems right,
we come to understand that;
holds no bearing on home.