The Writers' Circle

I am asleep when I awake,
And for this I need your touch,
Am I to roam this cruel world alone,
Unravel it's secrets never heard,
Am I to speak only through veils,
That catch my words as flies,
Is there any hope that you can care,
When e'er else dare not to care,
I am born through dust just as you,
But I strive to be much more- 
much more like you

My soul is threadbare and exposed,
Where the moths of silence have gorged,
My bones chime with hollow cords,
My eyes still, baron unseeing and closed,
Touch me and I breath and feel, all else,
But I am cursed damned, this you sense,
And like a disease, bless yourself with absence,
In fear; so that you be relieved,
of my lonely and desperate intemperance

So in those moments you've saved,
In a jar beneath your bed, 
How do you spend these moments so,
that in your avoidance, the jar has fed,
It's my belief that better dust takes your cause,
And sadly, this is the philosophy of all, 
and so dust to dust, as to like-to-like,
Is why I must remain alone,
my dust salted and ungrown