Untitled (Life in itself is nothing)

Not only under ground are the brains of men 
Eaten by maggots. 
Life in itself 
Is nothing
Edna St Vincent Millay




A year ago, the ground cracked wide
beneath my feet –
darkness clutched my ankle
and I fell into my grave.

It is a lonely thing to live interred –
the smell of cold clay
sifts into your skin, an embrace
whispering of decomposition.

The sky is reduced to rectangle
devoid of the sun –
the rain finds your place in the night
and seeps through veins to heart.

Imperceptibly, your brain grows roots
fine as hairs, thick as fingers –
when it is time to rise, you find
you have grown attached to death.

A year ago, I went down to earth
but I did not die –
I returned to the land peeling off
tattered remains, a ghost of myself.




For Izy's Out of Standard prompt on day 26 of poetry writing month.

Also, for Margaret's Artistic Interpretations on day 27. I selected the picture entitled Bones by a 15 year old in the 10th grade.

Those who know me, will remember that I fell gravely ill in the first week of May, 2017. I received medical attention in the nick of time, but my recovery was a long, slow process and I will always bear the deep and painful scars, both physical and mental, as a lasting reminder of the experience.
Strangely enough, I made friends with death in the process - it was life I had to come to terms with.