Why are the Faithful Dying?

A school assignment from last year and also a statement.

Every Sunday when I was young

I used to go with my mother

Past the orchard where red apples hung

To the little white church on the corner

 

I used to sit beside her

In the wooden pews of old

And listen to the preacher talk

About angels and their God

 

My mother believed in Him

And in His righteous son

But that belief couldn't save her

When they found cancer in her lung

 

That Sunday I knelt before the dying statue

And whispered quietly to the air

Begging for my mother's life

To anyone happening to hear

 

I returned every Sunday after

And pleaded on my knees for her soul

But every Sunday she grew weaker

Her eyes going dim and her body growing cold

 

It'll be ten years tomorrow

Since the day my mother died

And death proved itself stronger

Than a magic man in the sky

 

I am not a bitter woman

But neither am I an innocent girl

There is no one among us immortal

There is no world after our world