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.