It’s sad that death does not exist—
Just one great “reset” in the mist,
Just one great “reset” in the mist,
An endless road ahead…
Behind my back, such woes persist,
Long buried deep where shadows twist,
Long buried deep where shadows twist,
Cut off from God, and dead.

I plunged into life like ice-cold water,
Hoping my strength would hold the quarter…
Hoping my strength would hold the quarter
To forget the cross and nails…
I flogged myself in meek self-slaughter,
Snarled at the angels in my falter,
Snarled at the angels in my falter,
Gathering pain in bales.

Life is a black-and-white old reel,
No script to write, no fate to seal—
No script to write, no fate to seal,
Just bones we’re handed here.
I flung a cry of light with zeal,
But blackest night refused to feel—
But blackest night refused to feel:
We’re all just guests, my dear.

I wove a wreath from hollow air,
Stitching the soul’s torn scraps with care…
Stitching the soul’s torn scraps with care,
Mute stanzas groan and sigh…
Burnt bridges flare in frozen glare
Across the burning field’s despair,
Across the burning field’s despair
The angels cannot fly.