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.