Dead Man Living

These cold fingers grasp the screaming air.
The dirt is sifted aside,
Making way for an escape.
They meticulously pick through the rocks and sand
Hoping to find an answer.
The lid is lifted; the timber begins.
An avalanche of soil pouring into the wooden box.
Fighting-
Wanting-
With a heart no longer beating.
Shaking-
Stirring-
With a soul still pleading.
Goodbye forever, to these cold fingers.
Goodbye forever, to the dead man living.