When we are surrounded
                   by many walls.

And there is only a window,
                  It can lead to a fall.

Start with a brick and talk
                  through every one.

And eventually there will be
                 a door to our freedom.

I'm buried within the madness
       that collects within every
                                       breath...
Realizing that with ever exhalation
that it feels like your last weave.
But its not, its just another motion
of an illness that others never see.

But judge,
            I have fibromyalgia.
And every breath is woven in pain.

I was woven in the collection
of your weaving. But was I the
illegitimate thread of so many
stitches that were woven incorrectly.

But within the faults,weren't there
patterns that were unique to the fashion
of what were meant as perfection.
But was perfection diluted beyond sight.

Energetic particles were throw around,
                younger years blending us
                                 into others orbit.
But we never followed,
        as others were separate from our thought.
When we collected on others echoes.

All fell beneath the floors of gapping indiscretions,
                                                  ­ but when they looked,
they viewed the expiration dates of their words.

Idiots are like coffee,
               they seem ok.

But then,
beneath the surface
           their rank, and too weak.

When the wolf saw the sheep
             the sheep asked why me,
why not those over there.

The wolf replied I have no need
          of explanation for your worries,
they are short lived as is your breath.

The sheep asked again as the wolfs
         teeth caressed it throat,
Loosing gently it replied.

*"Death is a petal on a flower of life,
               and yours has fallen to me,

The morbidity of life is exhumed
everyday of our awaking breath.
For when will this ceaseless existence
grant upon my eyes the closure,
that will vindicate that its fully proven.

Will I ever be a portrait of death,
hanging silently beyond my view.
But alas I still sense the ambiance
of every pilgrimage. This cradle
that I need to decline into oblivion.

I never asked to be exhumed from
the ruination of silence. I was embedded
beyond peace, but then entombed
within this mortal coil,
collecting more pain than ever in death.