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.