follow the black marks on the floor
fallen through the bathroom door
on his face, that's how it finds you
you built an alter of books and melting wax
sackcloth and his panic attacks
smears his eyes with the candle ash
and oh, does God have a sound?
like a family laughing loud?
or a garden gate opening to
a world you never found.
but not everything's a metaphor
you know somethings just are
like the way she slams her bedroom door
that doesn't mean a thing
he tied a dirty towel around his waist
washes his feet with the tears from his face
aint it a shame, that's how you find him?
in the darkest closet behind the veil
in his sweet and haunted hour of prayer
his hands and feet claw the air
and oh, does God have a sound?
like a little girl crying out
from the attic of her house
where she hid herself for days
but everything's a metaphor
to blood stained over the door
to the bread crumbs on the floor
everything means something.