I breathe but I wouldn’t call it still being alive.
This is some sort of hell maybe,
Maybe the ones who get the fire are actually lucky.
And the rest have to live with the scent of soil on rainy day.
But in just darkness and with nothing else.
Imprisoned underground and in a wooden box.
Which I discover is much too comfortable for those who’ve departed.
Maybe it’s just a luxury afforded for the mental torture to come.
I swear I hear footsteps above me at times.
It forces me to try and scream but any noise I make barely breaks into the air.
Then I hear them talk about me
Bluntly as if in total disrespect that their even at my grave.
Or they don’t care that I still hear them.
They say it was death by a heart attack but I know it wasn’t that.
It was simply a broken heart that leaked out all the love that it had.
Maybe that’s why I’m still here not somewhere else instead.
Move on inside and I might move on from here.