Spirit

Remove the question mark from its face

Assault the memory of garden day

Faith and chance turn into exactly what's left

It's the privilege of saying this is wrong

Versus the act itself, its feeling

Tenderness plays as you complain

Reading expectation as if it happens that way

Hope turns sorry

Heaven burns the year, pulls me close

Beg me to sing through the door

Of a life so far away, asking what it's for

If nothing else stops the Earth for you

Ask me to be nothing else, what else would I do?

Hope turns sorry

Heaven burns a year, pulls me close

Beg me to sing through the door

Of a life so far away, asking what it's for

If nothing else stops the Earth for you

Ask me to be nothing else, what else would I do?

It's the privilege of saying it's wrong

Versus the act itself, its feeling