Colin F. Jones


The walls are sodden drip, drip dripping,
The worms dislodged no longer gripping;
The pit is slowly coldly filling,
Around my body the mud is milling.
I struggle but I can’t get up,
The entrance in the roof is shut,
Hell, help me, help me I do shout,
I can’t get up I can’t get out!
I writhe in panic darkness shunning,
The beauty of the earth so stunning,
That seems to laugh; the sun is grinning,
Oh, God, Oh God, death is winning!
Then I awake with body sweating,
Afraid and troubled; alone and fretting.