Living, Entombed

we spend our whole lives clawing from the grave
desperate for the sun,
the breeze,
the rustle of trees.
we don’t remember how we ended up this way,
these many ways,
but most dead men don’t recall their deaths,
and our ties weigh heavy as nooses,
our burial shrouds crisp and black,
and we claw, frantic,
breathing short and shallow, eyes bulging and red,
clawing at our walls, our everyday,
screaming louder curses with each depleting breath
buried deep, far too deep for
anyone to hear or care.

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