Old Home

This is honesty I'm afraid of who I might really be You're a mystery I'm a blind man walking this balance beam Am I getting through Talking to walls here in the afternoon Am I getting through Am I just a stranger who rented a room Who rented a room Am I just a stranger who rented a room Yours is the earth, yours is the grain The voice in the wind, the stroke on the page I'm paralyzed in this wretched old home Making up words that I reckon you wrote Yours is the earth, yours is the grain The voice in the wind, the stroke on the page I'm paralyzed in this wretched old home Making up words that I reckon you wrote