Reaching down into our reserve pockets
Not expecting to find a song.

Not listening, but only riding every sound we hear
We sketch our plans
We dig our graves
We build our towers
We hide our bodies
We paint our pockets
We write our songs.

Chanting down the history of our cells
Who can really tell
Where the rhythms started
But have they yet stopped?

Reaching upwards pushing open the roof
With our tongues
Putting down the pens.
Sharpening every page
Not forgetting the colours

When filling in the empty spaces 
Knitting complicated laticed worked motifs
We knit lace
We emit silence
We cage emotion
We build walls
We sketch agony
We die slowly
We live in our pockets.