Alexander Palmer

March 29, 2004 - Florida
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my lungs fill with mud and I cannot breathe,
my bones crack under the earth's crushing weight,
the worms sing to me when I try to sleep,
there is a vile beauty in their pure hate.

it is quiet, ever so quiet, and so it shall remain,
I am alive, torn from the skies, cast into this wretched grave,
whose name shall I curse, what deity can I blame?
when the earth herself has ruined me, there is no one else to frame.

and once I thought I was alone, that my screams would go unheard,
but what shallow hubris is that, we are never alone in the dirt,
my mouth is dry, it tastes of dust, dust and shallow hurt,
I would beg for the release of death but I cannot grasp the words.

my fingernails are gone, bloodied wounds in their place,
I began to claw at earth and rocks when I ceased to pray,
this is no wretched dream, no, there is no such easy escape,
my tears cut lines of clarity through my dust-soaked weary face.

time itself fails me, when have I last glimpsed the sun?
the stars themselves seem to drown underneath this choking mud,
when will this horrid silence deem my penance served and done?
for I am certain this is hell, if hell itself has not been outdone.
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