We are the walls in formless shapes. 
The overbearing weight. 
This house weighs heavy on my mind. 
Erasing tapes, undocumented faiths. 
Took down your pictures and your belongings. 
In boxes buried under the soil, in the yard behind our tree, you’ll wait. 

Wrote tiny poems through the lines of my hands. 
Little birds flew by me. 
The wind’s been calling your name south in pursuit of foreign lands. 
Can’t go back. Where’s your tact? 
Where’s your grace? Where are the things you replace? 
Are our words more than sound? 
We cut the air and we’ve found to lose your faith in the world is to lose faith in yourself. 
We are ghosts in your homes. 
We travel under the floor. 

And when our voices fail us we will find new ways to sing. 
When our bodies fail we’ll find joy in the peace that it brings. 
The world is a beautiful place but we have to make it that way. 
Whenever you find home we’ll make it more than just a shelter. 
And if everyone belongs there it will hold us all together. 
If you’re afraid to die, then so am I.