This smell that lingers in the air, starving,
reminds me of a stoic song I sang.
About a soul lost, ached and alarming,
Coping past and chewing his stale sugar cane.
Awake in a suddenly shallow grave.
Darkness gets a new meaning in a trap,
short of breath, and beaten past a close shave.
He conquered his shock, still smelling the sap.
Dirt tastes like ambrosia when your freedom
is a short dig, six feet to the heavens.
All you can wait on is the next red rum
to chase away the seven and seven.
Fingernails and flesh turn to trouble.
He will never eat oatmeal again.
Getting closer, wishing for roots to pull.
There will be more murder soon, my old friend.
Then light, as it obsseses the dark, blinds.
And air, as it relieves the lung, leaks in.
Hands from anyman will struggle and find,
The top of a mountain through breaths so thin.
With digging and wonder the might he'll find.
Finally it's Head, Shoulders, knees and toes.
Rising from the dust, take time to rewind.
Lost in a field, so it goes and goes.
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