Singed bodies piled high on an earth -size altar
where no one fully dies until its their time
but for now, look above, its a clear blue sky
but with a sigh there's one soul who dares to ask why
there isn't death even night or life or light
no white like the dove of hope as we cope against the storms.
So we wrote in different forms
the same folk tale of mass sales, strong gales, beached whales, religious nails, how justice fails.
Now these all sail into the atmosphere amongst our fears and disperse upon our ears
in different forms of what we wrote on the storms
so we could cope apart from hope
for life or light in death and night.
So I ask why above me there's a clear blue sky as we refuse to die
on this earth-size altar where there's bodies piled high
as an offering to whom?
we excavate and loom wondering if we'll pull through the crucifixion and the tomb
but we cannot accept this fate out of the womb.

Let me ask why we grieve at every death in our time?
Let me say that maybe we weren't meant to die on this altar.
Let me ask why I can't accept death and my time?
I will claim that death wasn't meant for me
and I know this altar wasn't made for me.