rot

This coffin we call our mind i continually claw. pleading with what ever is out their in this ever growing world to set me free. inside i scream, laugh and weep gazing continually up at the wooden boards that trap me. at times this coffin is capsulated in warmth and sun but now it feels as if only dirt is packed above me and the weight is ever growing. i like to believe that above me there are flowers blossoming, a clear sky and a ever present visitor but i know that is only hopeful thinking for above lies nothing but rot.

Reviews

[charlie]

Usually the rotting of things takes place underground, and is buried. It's an interesting and none too inaccurate perspective that bears witness to rot above the ground.