Buried Alive Poem by Alex Taylor Spurling

I am astray on a narrow path, layered by the tundra below. Only the ground is frozen in tracks of despair. A story it entails, in voices drowned by the vain of mud-blood. Veins that supply a city, cannot babble as they do when the current is rushing. Something has struck me as coincidental. Guilt clobbers me with its blow, leaving no witness standing. Merciless is he who seeks vengeance upon the ill. I sit and persuade the dirt to unhand its possessions. This time the path finds me, praying for mercy, for I am ill.

My pride bows in defeat, as the hair on my head out of lack of volume. My lack of commitment has made an oath to never leave my side. Even, after I have passed the conscious choices I had made or hadn't..wait. These engravings are no prisoner to time. I never paddled faster than when the lights evaded. When the only fresh inhalation I take is a bed of salt water. I choke and swim for the nearest shore, death out of pity shakes it's head at my lack of dignity. I have never stayed the course, only gotten by. Chest sucked in, chest puffed out.