The Box

Silent and still, I hear the wind. It drifts upon my face And smells how rotten fruit taste. Water drips into mouth. I lick my lips. Only to taste the clay of the earth And the wood of this box. Air is sacred here. I gasp for it, As I lay separated and serene. I scream, but no one hears me. Above me a shiny silver speculum Display bloodshot globes glistening. This can't be me; I still live. Please someone hear me cry, I just let another breath of air slip by.