...And the Gale Will Bring Demons

Somewhere between the rural moors...
A graveyard mortuary unchains its doors.
Listen for the whispers that seep through your head...
And release yourself to the wake of the dead.

Imagine being stricken down, carried off in a hearse.
Everyone mourns as it only gets worse...
They fix your body by portraits, for all to engross...
Covered in preservatives and viewed up close.

You cannot stir, you cannot move...
The motionless centerpiece at the front of the room.
To think all of this, celebrated all for you...
But every vessel is crying, unsure of what to do.

One by one, they gather in lines.
Lamentations of many, in few hours' time...
Then stripped away by the same way you came...
Involuntarily placed in the grave.

No light pierces here, no sounds...no breath.
There is nothing to fear for in the Groves Of Death...
Only few make it out, to walk as a freeman.
The night will give you Darkness.
...And The Gale will bring demons.