Sculptor

Sitting with the politicians
Suiting up these rags need stitching
How’d I get to this part of the plan
A nomad riding a luxury train
In the sky
Do politicians wanna be musicians
A rock star with a party line
A folk tune we know the words to
Empty sounds resounding sounds of nothing
The lady’s dancing the safety demonstration
Painted faces, nothing out of place
Will they stay that way
If we tumble to crash
Perfect dolls would we float
Salted, washed, lifted, lost, but found somewhere else
Found somewhere else
Taken by a light
Brightest on the other side
Let me know the color and trace of my worst fears
And face them without a tremor
Without the slightest sense of dread
But as the ghost of my own unruly head
May just see its own kind
Its own creation
And a final place
The most beautiful, serene sculpture
My hands could make
Could trace
Could make
Could trace
Could make
Could trace
Could break