I was naked, around twilight,
Covered in dirt and leaves
Having been buried alive,
By life buried.
A crawling mass of moist earth
Composed of dismembered deaths,
Colonies of feeding decomposers,
And my own fragile ego.
I must have sunk
From grace down to dirt
And been planted face-down,
Neglected and self-misused.
I suppose I slept
Because I dreamed vividly
In colors more vibrant and varying
Than I ever felt before.
I’d visited myself,
Seen the spectrum of my being
Like so many blends of fantasy and memory
Shifting perpetually within.
Only after waking
I recognize the implication
Of finding myself alive,
Head-first buried in a hole.
As Stephen King has called it: The ever popular Premature Burial -always a good subject for a story or poem.
LikeLiked by 1 person