THE ORIGINAL TREE

The rust of my conscience

I am shaking it off

The birds flying higher

A crack inside the earth

I come to the ocean 

To let it fly away

The weight of an anchor 

Dusty wings covered in clay 

And I don't have to deserve it

The things that God can see

We are all fallen angels 

Fruit from the original tree

The wind shook the branches

And we came tumbling down 

A world of confusion 

A fractured, splintered ground 

And the wind is against us

Crashing in from the north

I let it blow through me

I don't fear it anymore

The salt and the iron

Have shocked all the roots

So I let them grow deeper 

A mountain forms from the earth

The cracks in my conscience

Are filled in by the sand

I stand on the mountain

The wind builds again 

And I don't have to deserve it

The things that God can see

We all have our anchors

And we all have our wings.