I found you holding a nail and a fragile piece of paper.
What a lovely plot, nail it to a door.
Two years later with a bag and a bowl.
What a firm grip. Whats true to you?
You found me holding a record sending calls to your hand
"Let me speak to someone sitting close"
Two years later with the cancer in my heart.
What a self-righteous act of youth.
I hope you(we) figure this out.
There's blood on our shoes and we love this room.
Our brothers hands on our heads, a warm touch and an 
honest prayer.