Buried
So the wreck remains.
They are but tortured cracks of plywood
and small planks of life;
A life lost to inevitability.
The struggle,
oh the struggle
of one so entrenched in the sorrow
of living.
Not for the morning dew or the
scent of dusk,
but for this empty continuation.
This, abyss,
the agonizing bloody drag,
of splinters crosswise o’er scorched skin.
Leave me,
Emancipated.