A lonely maggot weaves within a skin
of plush thought. On the outside not
a blemish of appearances. But beneath
this maggot becomes a fly buzzing within
                                       confused messages.

Where one laid the eggs of woeful sorrow,
but the fruit still looks fresh, never showing
what collects below. Eating away at the
reflection that were pure, now swollen  with
                   discontent of noises feeding beneath.

"Seeing only the surface
                  never shows the secluded
           emotions rotting within a chamber of sorrows"