Whispers Of A Soil Bath

Sticky fingers,

wrapped in twine,

tightly twisting it’s wicked way around all that I am,

without and within,

is this my curse,

my sins final hand,

the game,

for I am,

I am not,

did I dig this hole?

Or was it dug for me?

it matters not anyway,

for the soil falls upon me,

and the darkness creeps in.

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