Conscious slumber holds death's hand,
A waste of being lacking expectancy,
Not to attain matters planned
Nor to ever wholly breathe again.

Slightest verve could pierce the layer
That smothers elusive faith,
For which infinity would bargain,
and strive to never fail.

Unworthy of precious solace,
I strain through splinters of existence,
Violently inviting decency
to bring a world not so remiss.