What is the purpose of life?
When we die, does our soul carry on or does it vanish into air?
Is there a heaven or hell, or is it a story people tell?
We are here for some higher purpose.
But they run out of tales to tell,
Why do we fight to exist while living in hell?
Too long my mind has been trapped in a cell,
When we bleed out, we only have a soul to sell.
Wooden frames and falling sand,
Grain of time flowing through our hands.
Every spirit and hope will splinter,
As we sleep through unending winters.
We will eventually wake up alone,
With so little truly known.
Our house is built on stone,
With a ceiling made of glass,
And a heart of bone.
For those sins we must atone,
Or we will never surpass,
Man's lead throne.
But where is our reality?
In a plane of our frailty,
Impervious to care,
Cold and bare.
At the impasse,
Once the winds have blown,
Will doubt continue to amass,
Or will we reap what we've sown?
Is there a heaven or hell, or is it a story people tell?
But they run out of tales to tell,
When we bleed out, we only have a soul to sell.
Wooden frames and falling sand,
Grain of time flowing through our hands.
Every spirit and hope will splinter,
As we sleep through unending winters.
We will eventually wake up alone,
With so little truly known.
Our house is built on stone,
With a ceiling made of glass,
And a heart of bone.
For those sins we must atone,
Or we will never surpass,
Never surpass,
Man's lead throne.