I keep trying to dig myself out but the dirt just rains down harder.
Torrential.
A hurricane of eluvial torment.
In a hole miles deep.
Can't look up.
It gets in my eyes.
My shovel is dull and deteriorating.
The handle splintered years ago.
Slivers in my palms.
Infected and festering.
My grave it seems.
I've stopped digging.
A soul released.