The Lure

Join the march to your own funeral Death is imminent, yet beautiful Following promises of demise Stand in line to claim your prize Concrete shoes anchor us to the ground Our lips move, but there is no sound Souls drag behind weighing down Eyes transfixed on an distant crown The rapture awaits For the hungry that took the bait Fish out of water now suffocate Gasping for oxygen, but it’s too late God given gills steal our breath Strangled by the cold grip of death A grave you dig is one you keep An earthly depth for your final sleep.