In corners we collect our wept
     collections that gather solitary dust.
But they gain weight with every oppressed
        emotion. We never show the slide delicately
forming in the cortex, showing indefinitely.
                   Repeats of what now show our faltering ability.

Were entombed in the heavy yesterdays
           that are swallowing us within dead pools
of contemplation. But we sink nevertheless always.
Rotting beneath boulders of self doubt, are
we able to ever gain breath against the obscure.
              Or will we just breath in stagnant air.