The High Art of Killing Your Friends

A hand comes down
Into this deep, dark hole.
Clawing at the ground
I try to take hold.
Earth sticks under my nails,
Soil fills my mouth and nose.
Whoever put me in this hell
Didn't go deep enough.
I haven't seen the sun so long
That its radiance is painful.
I can't see the savior,
The Samaritan's kind soul.
All I know is that hand,
The blessed lifeline,
Has dirt under its nails
And is as soiled as mine.