Mud

Bubble skin that leaves me hung in dry dark dirt, for garden groth,
squeeze green fingers through my back, I block the sun, my rolls of fat,
but for fear of seperating I would cut them back.

Moist mud that opens little holes within my skin,
I dip my fingers in to taste, it sticks,
and cracks dry carvings as my fingers curl back again.

Cold lapping not a stretch away for thirst and touch,
much cold and numbing spark that calls me closer,
pull me closer, drink me, choke me.

I sink into the mud, and slowly loose all sense of light. I am not sure whether I can breathe, and everything goes dark, or bright.