Down at the bottom of this hole
I worked so long and hard to dig
I can barely see the sunlight any more.
My feet are molding from the salty damp
That doesn’t come from rain
Or subterranean springs or rivers.
My shovel leans against the wall,
It’s wooden handle crimsoned
On the dirt that also isn’t paint.
Impossible for wind to reach me
Way down here, so what’s that howling
That I hear? Could it possibly be me?
ljm
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
Down at the bottom of this hole
I worked so long and hard to dig
I can barely see the sunlight any more.
My feet are molding from the salty damp
That doesn’t come from rain
Or subterranean springs or rivers.
My shovel leans against the wall,
It’s wooden handle crimsoned
On the dirt that also isn’t paint.
Impossible for wind to reach me
Way down here, so what’s that howling
That I hear? Could it possibly be me?
ljm
My hillbilly Gramma used to get depressed and say she "Felt like crawling in a hole and pulling the hole in after her". This is my version of that.