i couldn't begin to compose.

you sat in the chair
i sat on the floor to wash your feet.
the blood streamed from my hands
like rubies falling on the concrete.
the ships took down their sails,
the white fell like you from grace.
people gathered under a same tent
because they didn't know what to do but congregate.

soak wash rinse scrub rinse
repeat
repeat
repeat.

i told them to bury him with his rachet,
only the finest things,
and not to touch his tousled hair because
all good things are wild and free.
but, i was stopped by a meek little voice
coming from the smallest of persons in the crowd
that told me 'i'm sorry,
but sweet mr. thomas is already in the ground.'
'but, but..
i didn't even get to say goodbye!
how could you? TELL ME
where do i find his graveside?'

soak wash rinse scrub rinse
repeat
repeat
repeat.

oh, what a horrible mound of dirt
to hover over both of our heads
like a life size storm cloud
that rains hot tears of red.
i dig and dig and dig
until the truth i finally see
that there is nothing,
nothing but an empty abyss where you should be.

soak wash rinse scrub rinse
repeat
repeat
repeat.

whats the sense in washing when, in the end, there are fishnet shoes on your feet!