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.
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