Sculptor

Sitting with the politicians
 Suiting up, these rags need stitching
 How'd I get to this part of the plane?
 A nomad riding a luxury train, in the sky
 Do politicians wanna be musicians?
 A rockstar with a party line
 A folk tune we know the words to
 Empty sounds, resounding sounds of nothing
 The ladies dancing the safety demonstration
 Painted faces nothing out of place
 Would they stay that way if we tumbled 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 colour and trace of my worst fears
 And face them without a tremor
 Without the slightest sense of dread
 But as the ghosts of my unruly head
 Made to see it's own kind
 It's 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