The Absence Of Weight
He felt weightless and absent-
Beneath the red soil in which he lay.
The smell of smooth satin made odd-
When mixed with the Georgia clay.
It was dark and quiet, no sound-
Save that of a smooth burrowing.
He opened his mouth to scream-
But the wooden box and six feet-
Denied the cry of his empty voice.
Time held no meaning-
Since there was no day.
Only now the night-
And the absence of weight.
J. Allen Wilson © 2/19/2011