I'm dead. They buried me whole,
Senses still awake, bones chilled
Eight feet down this dank, dark hole.
I can't move. But I have will,
And I listen while the worms
Wiggle through my body still.
My eyes hurt. I've come to terms
With death; it's pain terrorizes
With prolonged tattooed purple germs.
When’s sleep? This box mesmerizes
With its thousand-dollar casing.
Plastic friend, let's fantasize.
Ego? Still intact, debasing
My legacy. Earth fills hands.
Soon thoughts Gods will be erasing.