Cure for a flu'

Pulling feathers out of the woodwork.
Looking for water,
 or something of that essence
 that could work.
Nailing roots, 
and laying coffins.
Living confused,
and dying in severe doubt.
Our church isn't broken,
 it was never built.
It isn't burning,
 it is just a-light.
Without a cohesive thought,
me and mine are the dreamers. 
Devoid of clever ways,
and any knowledge of the highways,
we are nothing but strays.
Orphaned gods, 
blissful in ignorance and, 
Rulers of a kingdom
of the artful mind. 
Take to the page,
fight with me. 
For non of use will make it out alive. 
your body is a temple,
Being mobbed by a crowd. 
Youth is its potence,
but in age we gain science,
and a fear of the ground.
You are dead to the world and, 
soon they'll all be dead too.
So dont take it to the core, 
you heart, 
the coal your,
ground floor;
because you'll,

its the youth, break through.

Hart BOY