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.