The Funeral

Scarlet chairs, perfect rows
Women in black, in love
With lives not theirs, deceased,
Their souls are not above.

This is the day when life
And death switched up their cloaks
He's no longer, he's alive,
He slept for good, he awoke.

The smell of fresh coffee,
On their lips, the venom
Can harm no dead, her dress,
Her heels, vile as a phantom

She chatters with her friends,
Lamentations to thrive,
We're here to stone the death
That took him, we're alive.

Clad in the abrasive trances
Unaware of their lies
Begging their souls for tears
May their fibs hide in their eyes.

The words of God an echo
In their hollow vessels
Searching for truth inside,
For any revenge to wrestle.

Scarlet chairs, blackened souls,
A Martyr more alive
In his grave, than us all-
Dead for our wish to survive.