I walked into the cathedral
Saw the minister’s machine
I heard the gears ringing in my ears
But what was made I could not see.
I buried my possessions
And I marked the spot with stones
And I waited for what my teachers saw
When they emptied out their homes
I lit a match beneath me
To burn off what I don’t need
I had to drench the pyre when my eyes caught fire
I’ll guess I’ll try again…
My dreams are all like razors
Hidden in the soap
And when I bleed, my cuts are cleaned
And in the stinging is the hope.
The piano is an oak tree
And the strings are garden vines
Perhaps some day I’ll learn how to play
But for now I’ll just keep time.
And perhaps when I am ancient
When my old bones start to bend,
I’ll find the words for what I have heard
And that will be my end.