I was in a coffin, trapped beneath the low hanging fruit of the tree. Clustered bunches dangling just above, so dense there was no moment to find within. The occasional wind causing the clumps to collide against my body, bruised we both seep our serous spirit. In the shifting shadows, cast by the overgrown leaves, flickers of light show through the eaten away veins.
Deep inspiration, burst of arms in swing, stirring the air to tunnel my exit. Piercing my skin the effected debris, spun into chaos by my will to be free. As the last old twig falls to the ground I see above me only turquoise sky and auburn sun.
Inspired by the prompt ‘low hanging fruit’ at typetrigger.com