Bathroom Floor

(Instrumental)

The hum is a hymn from a tired machine A sermon in plumbing, obscenely serene My cheek finds the porcelain, blessedly cold A story in water stains, centuries old The geometry of tile, a catekism grid Where all of the noise of my nervous system is hid And the light through the frosted glass baptizes the dust In a covenant made of inertia and trust

And oh, it’s a strange kind of holy, this peace that I’ve found Lying here listening to nothing, the loneliest sound There’s a truth in the pressure of cold on the bone The one place I’m perfectly, terribly known Is here on the floor

There are ghosts in the condensation, writing their names On the mirror I’m trying so hard not to blame A muffled percussion conducts through the door The life I’ve been living right before the before The drip from the faucet’s a metronome’s beat For a song of surrender and graceful defeat And my pulse is a frantic and dissonant guest In this temple of quiet, this fortress of rest

And oh, it’s a strange kind of holy, this peace that I’ve bought With the currency of every battle I’ve fought There’s a truth in the pressure of cold on the skin But what if this quiet’s just the shape of the hole I’m in? Here on the floor

And I promised myself I would learn how to stand With my spine like a pillar, the world in my hand Not an invertebrate prophet of linoleum tile Who can deconstruct grace but can’t fake a damn smile! I’ve diagnosed every symptom, I’ve charted the ache For Christ’s holy sake, what’s it going to take? To be more than a body that’s blocking a drain? Just a sad, sorry monument, worshipping rain!

AND OH, IT’S A STRANGE KIND OF HORROR, THIS HELL THAT I’VE FOUND MAKING ANGELS IN DUST ON THIS UNHOLY GROUND THERE’S A TRUTH IN THE ECHO MY OWN SCREAMING MAKES AND I’LL LIE HERE AND BREAK TILL THERE’S NOTHING THAT BREAKS ANYMORE ON THE FLOOR!

Well. That’s that, then.