I Bury Myself Alive

By Vidhutma Singhania

I bury myself alive,

every single night.

I dig my own grave,

fistful of dirt at a time.

Bring out my shovels,

when the schedule feels tight.

I tend to leave

a few pebbles behind.

Some grass, mushrooms, stones

or crystals that I find.

No, they aren’t the pleasure of the mortal world

that I deserve tonight.

They’re simply the souvenirs

after all, I did live a life.

When I’ve decorated my grave,

with memories alone, I smile.

Because, in my bones, I know

it’s the final moment to lie.

Instead of being gracefully placed,

I collapse into the ground, it’s wry.

I hyperventilate till my last breath

counting down to my last sight.

A shooting pain between my chest & my throat

leads to a helpless cry.

And I’m suddenly woken up to see

the rising Sun in the sky.

I bury myself alive

every single night.

By Vidhutma Singhania