Iâ€™ve made my home where two walls meet.
The splintered wood, no doubt it should, truly accept me.
Day and night, void of fright, I snuggle these two broken walls.
Their fractured frame does label and name the only thing I seek.
The dust is my friend, where these two walls meet.
It floats then coats and covers my eyes from the judgment shown to me.
They split the chain the dull have lain, these two broken walls.
For when their dullness prevents them to learn, I yearn for the bridge I seek.
My chest lay still with a heart unfulfilled, where these two walls meet.
My heart will not beat, but I will shriek each time their world points at me.
The lethal finger causes death to linger beside these two broken walls.
Yet in the death is where I live, to give their world the view it should seek.
Their world neglects the bridge I erect where the two walls meet.
Once confined, these two worlds now bind from the work thatâ€™s forged by me.
Iâ€™ve crafted the way in which I convey the poise of these two broken walls.
For without death life holds no breath and erases all cases for the unique, to seek.