Ten feet of Earth,
we are known to inherit–
One belonging to our past, and all of its lessons;
of all those who lived before us,
who tell us their tale–
morbid, black thunder,
from beyond their grave.
Two for ourselves, and all that we’re worth,
all that we’ve gathered,
and brought to this Earth;
all the hate that we’ve spewed,
and the lies we have said,
to all those we have loved,
who now lay dead.
Three for the people, we thought we could be,
all the faces we wore, in hopes of release,
from the prison of our bodies,
and the ruins of our lives,
to be some grand figure,
in somebody’s lie.
Four for the ruler, of our world, and the next–
who shall sleep in this coffin, with us in the end,
for God did not make us, and did not let us die,
it was our own doing,
He is our own pride.
Oh, the hubris of man!
Who knows not when he has tainted his land.
So now when you sleep,
in your slumber so peaceful,
remember the men who you said were your equal;
those men that you stepped on,
to get where you went,
and all those that you killed,
for whom you did not lament.
Theirs are the ghosts, and figures that shall prey,
and tear at your flesh,
and cause your decay,
for theirs was a story, that ended with you,
yet, there’s ten feet of Earth, they’re still entitled to.