This cycle has no end,

so once again, I'm in

the eye of the storm.

Fences and tree limbs,

beer bottles and bones

break apart around me.

God has found me

and I'm asking him

to carry me home.

A cyclone knows no friends.

No end to this road I'm on.

I am one with the wind,

and with the wind alone.

Wherever it may take me,

I'll make that place my home.

I'm flying high above the ground;

I'm falling down, too close to hell.

I once was lost, but now I'm found;

once a cloud, I'm now a supercell.

Once my home, debris is thrown around;

it's clear that I have nowhere left to go.

For Heaven is the devil's fairytale now,

and Hell has become all that I know,

but I'd much rather burn than drown.

Because hell's lakes are not of fire;

they are frozen solid with ice and sleet,

coated not with ashes, but with snow.

Jacob's ladder is a sleeted street,

and the snow that falls is blow.

And the devil himself is a little white pill;

he takes your pain and takes you higher,

and flies you higher above land,

until finally you can

reach for God's hand.

But when you do,

he lets you go,

and you fall

down into

the void

below.