Buried before our birth,
             we're  grains collecting
beneath every breath.
             As we gasp within.
Am I worthy of every fragment
           collecting within a silhouette
of times shallow grave, I'm obscured.

The door never relinquished its grip,
baneful whispers knocked endlessly
non where heard but some screamed.

Clamouring upon senses worth, edging
them towards deliriums shade. Wishing
to open lingering to be again rebirthed.

But wood inscribed knots hidden where
eyes did not linger, few could see what it
forcibly entombed, kept forever concealed.

There are many bushes that linger outside
its view, these are the souls that dared to
knock once now obscured.

It will keep knocking on the veil, waiting
for it true intent now cunningly revealed. 
Who will be its bearer, who will keep it entombed.

*"Can you hear the door knocking will you
seek its shrouded truths,