The ground sinks,
He falls like a dead weight in water,
Though the depths are not of water,
But of dirt and soil,
Sand and mud.
Choking, choking,
Those are the thoughts of the man,
The man in quicksand.
Dirt falls in,
Entering his throat,
Lacerating his esophagus,
Sending blood into his body,
Along with the quicksand,
That was slowly eating him.
I'm gonna die, in this damned quicksand,
He thinks as the swallows his torso,
The only thing left are his outstretched arms and head.
The quicksand swallows him whole,
Deep down in the ground,
He's left to rot,
His family unknowing the horror which has befallen him,
Or that the quicksand lay just in their sand box.
- Mr. DH
YOU ARE READING
Quicksand
PoetryA poem of horror. Going back to my roots of writing, and all is as dark as it ever was. - Mr. DH
