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