Where lockets are kept

Where lockets are kept through looking glasses, weary of rockets billowing through the hand beneath my pillow chew through passes and put on my willowed sock, winnow the past and rock the night into my finger. Pulverized rhythm can't fight back from the overpowering voices, sounding like noisily deflating balloons. I look across a room to view the soiree, but halfway into my transversal traverse, the cantor feels me into a bathroom stall where weeping tomcats spend their last days as wallflowers. And this wall will fall, and all these walls will come down.