follow the black marks on the floornfallen through the bathroom doornon his face, that's how it finds younyou built an alter of books and melting waxnsackcloth and his panic attacksnsmears his eyes with the candle ashnnand oh, does God have a sound?nlike a family laughing loud?nor a garden gate opening tona world you never found.nbut not everything's a metaphornyou know somethings just arenlike the way she slams her bedroom doornthat doesn't mean a thingnnhe tied a dirty towel around his waistnwashes his feet with the tears from his facenaint it a shame, that's how you find him?nin the darkest closet behind the veilnin his sweet and haunted hour of prayernhis hands and feet claw the airnnand oh, does God have a sound?nlike a little girl crying outnfrom the attic of her housenwhere she hid herself for daysnbut everything's a metaphornto blood stained over the doornto the bread crumbs on the floorneverything means something.