11/12/13 Buried and Dead

The darkness of night
and chill of winter
gnaws at my frame
and eats my consciousness
I can no longer remember happiness
The warmth of the sun
Or companionship
The season has changed
And nothing is fighting it anymore

When I’m buried six feet under
I imagine it will be this cold
I imagine my deceased frame
Will be no smaller
Than it was living

I imagine it will be quiet
Unlike it is now
There will be no more crying out
There will be no more crying
Except that which I can hear
Six feet above

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