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False sense of glory,
shatter the holy,
you say for rebirth,
as you carve graves in the earth.

Smoke smudges the blue
where angels once flew
and the dry eyes of sinners
will survive through the winter

And starving hands reach
for the tip of a wing
anything righteous
anything just

But hell is the sky
is the womb
is the life
of a beaten down innocent
clutched in grim arms

And a hung man's swing
sends the pastor to ring
a bell for the buried,
and the dead creatures walking

So hands grasped in prayer
turn to hands black with cold
and hands not but bones
and piles of ash

No longer hungry eyes
scour
for traces of saints

No longer rambling minds
dream
of succulent freedom

No longer thin lips
murmur
"Where is our god?"