Buried
Slipping. Folding inward.
Deeper and deeper.
Another cascading thud of dirt lands on me.
Shovel. Thud.
Shovel. Thud.
Shovel. Thud.
There is little light. I don't know if it's dawn or dusk.
The air is crisp and bitter.
It's getting harder to move.
I panic, my breath quickens, but it's a struggle to find air.
Until the dirt turns to ice.
Fallen into a frozen sleep
I wait for it to thaw.
Copyright © Paloma Walker | Year Posted 2020
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