The Perfect Grave

How does it feel to disclaim the familiar face of your town?
how does it feel to disclaim where you come from?
a bottle in hand and a grudge in heart is all it needs to feel this way,
feel how it feels in the realm where there is no home.

Two bags and a hard disk is what my life's worth,
the realisation of it both haunts and soothes;
materialism maybe the weakest at heart,
but the thought of it gives me bumps of goose.

The way back home is always gonna be there,
back to the way it all were,
I'll write an ode to the train that rides this way,
but resisting being on it is gonna be my life's dare.

And I'll banish what my heart craves,
anticipate what the holy industry awaits,
the heart is week, the heart weakens,
hence, I'll banish its want for a perfect grave.