Graves

sometimes i like to imagine
that life is our actual grave
the beautiful blue sky
was just painted on the wood
above our view of our coffin
our destiny can not be moved
and is stuck in the exact same position
over time no matter how hard we try
and our air stays the same
the dirt at our feet can be moved
but it just digs us deeper and deeper into our lives
the wood surrounding us is always acting as our protector
but never timely honored
and our words, can only be heard as whispers by the Earth
en-caving us in echoes that build up
from the cemetery encasing us
we can only communicate in our little boxes
heard as whispers, but in reality they are pleas and screams
Our little old boxes that we are always cemented into
because, deep inside, we are all waiting to be lain in our own Graves.