Left for dead,
Under the rotten soil,
Surrounded by filth,
In an utter state of turmoil,
My eyes are open,
But I couldn’t see a thing,
Lying inside a wooden block,
Some nails underneath that sting,
I’m not able to move,
But somehow there’s a motion,
Involuntary, autonomous, confusing,
Is it the work of some magic potion?
I hear no breath,
I feel no air,
But there’s a faint rhythm,
That I can barely hear,
The wood started creaking,
Breaking open from overhead,
I feel like I may be,
Rising back from the dead,
There’s a gigantic push,
Powerful beyond my control,
I might have somehow resurrected,
In body and in soul,
Standing above my own grave,
I don’t recognise this light,
Maybe I’ve woken up in a world,
Where it’s always night.
My Mind's Journal 