Rot

As I bore into the ashen type soil;
And my limbs grow ever so cold and numb;
I cannot stop my never ending toil;
My ears now deafened by the heartbeat drum.

I cannot tell if this may be my curse;
Has my luck now run dry from the river;
Or maybe something I fear is much worse;
One that shakes my bones and makes me quiver.

My eyes rot and my fingers start to peel;
The drum keeps getting louder and louder;
I can feel Death as he nips at my heel;
The dirt I tear at turning to powder.

I beg, please send me quickly to my grave;
I cannot pretend that I am that brave.