A Dark, Dirty Limbo

Sadness...
Sorrow...
Depression...
Insufficient descriptions
Of what it is like
To live in a deep dark hole.

Living is knowing both
The entrance of night
At the setting of the sun
As well as the reemergence
Of light the next morn.

But holes have no windows.
Here there is no discerning
Day from night,
But something much worse,
A man-made darkness.

If I had a shovel,
Perhaps then I could...

Dig and dig and dig

Until a ray from the sun
Spiraled down covering me
In a sort of
Golden spot light,
and I could see
Little particulets of dancing
All around me.

Dig and dig and dig

Until I could reach up
Into my garden,
Pull a boquet of roses down,
And as its lush redness
Filled my pupils,
Its sweetness would flow
Through my nostrils into my blood,
For a moment alive again.

And I can
Dig and dig and dig,
But other than my face
Being bombarded
By clumps of clay
Nothing would happen.

Never near enough to break free,
And not yet six feet under,
But locked somewhere between
In a dark, dirty limbo.