The Felon s Martyr

The mind s foundry burns too hot for preponderance, giving leverage to the fringe of guilt and regret.

Frivolous anticipation mangles your excitement, leveling with doubt that matures into apprehension.

Such is the industry created from institutions, crooning from abandoned confrontation.

Their lurking cages taunt you from above revealing a pervious echo. The strain upon your breast is pure survival, conveying your noisome unrest.

A meandering paranoia begs for release, as impulsive expectation bleeds your constitution.

You watch feebly as destiny s hand surrenders hope, and only silence greets your chances.

Broken, you yearn for deliverance from a restless endurance.

Until all there is, is Faith.