Pluck a feather from a dead bird
Lost in the middle of the road
There's no place left to run to
There's no where else to go
Map a trail up to heaven
While burning down our homes
And when we get there
If its just a field of dead flowers
And a pile of angels bones
We'll have to hope for something better
Inside our own souls
And that dead bird has found its nest
Hiding in the middle of the road