Beseech in Sheol

I find no comfort beneath the earth
for I feast on the dirt to live,
there is no mirth or satisfaction
and I see no reason to forgive,
I sleep in silence and the oblivion
and my crimes were never stated,
cords tighten as death surges 'round
and your belly will never be sated,
together with fellows of my wretch
and in sod we are buried abut,
snares come and made wide is your throat
and your mouth will never be shut,
out of the belly of soot I cry,
but still you do not hear my voice,
or maybe your ears are not deaf,
perhaps you do not listen by choice.