Mother Shell

Holy, holy, holy
God we felt divine
Two outscretched arms a blessing
I remember well
Four cool walls were a person
A calcereous shell
The real flesh never could serve
Us children like those bricks
Echoes resonated from
The keepers of the house
Consequently they killed
Our real mother that day
And my children will tend to ask questions like
When are we gonna die?
My children will tend to ask questions like
When are we gonna die
And there’s no connection between
Giving birth to me and making me survive
Yes my children will tend to ask questions like
When are we going to die?
And there’s no connection between
Giving birth to me and making me survive
Broken broken broken
The pieces are alive