Deliverance

We all crave for deliverance,

Into the hands of something greater,

As if we have no other purpose,
Than the wrapping of a package.

Death's the only recipient,

Society the post office;

Its job to send each of us

Into our mailbox in the ground.

Our buildings are mortuaries;

A cabinet to each corpse.

The doors are locked tight,

That we'll keep for the burial.

Everyone has yet arrived:
Lined up neatly in rows.
Won't you fit in your slot,
To be assigned just for you?
It's untidy to move about,
All that living's not polite.
Sit still without a sound,
And let the living rest.
Life's the irregularity!
You're the one who's out of line.