Marked Graves

A worm at the end of the line,
With the barbed piece of metal pierced through it's belly,
A young boy sitting patiently in a small little row boat,
With a small little cap on his sweaty little head.
The crime has been done,
The line is cast out to the sea,
And now both parties wait patiently.
The worm is afraid,
It jimmy's and jangles,
Trying to loosen itself,
Trying all angles,
It hollers at itself,
And itself hollers right back,
Panicked and alone,
With a gaping hole through its abdomen,
Awaiting its soul to be sent,
To a far off plane,
A temporal distortion,
But first waiting to be digested,
First swallowed,
First marked,
Here comes the pain,
Here comes the after worst,
Simplistic worm on a hook,
Just so the boy can have a fish to cook,
And the boy takes a sip from a beer that he stole,
And he pulls his coat around him tighter,
The cold air slicing through his skin,
The red bruises of ice cold knives,
A shallow breath floating through air,
Sacrificial worm in the water that he has no care
For, after all it is only a worm,
He has a whole bowl full of more cover in mud,
Sitting there,
With the chill autumn air,
In the middle of nowhere,
No one to pass judgemental stares,
No father to punish him,
No mother to scorn,
No wild bruises on his arms,
On his legs,
Free to catch fish,
Free to sit quietly by,
Free to think on his supposed sins,
Free to drink the pack of alcoholic drinks,
Four empty cans sitting around his feet,
Inside the little row boat in the middle of the sea,
The worm see's it coming,
Only at the last moment,
The big ole' fish mouth open up wide,
And fairly quickly the worm discovers he's died,
And up above the boy finds it out too,
The fish catches him off guard, and he stumbles on in,
And finds a bunch of sharks waiting for some din din.