The throes

I held my breath in fear to weep for the fragments of my brain.
See each day's but a moment that I fail hard to regain.
But as it goes the fiddler throws all values to the street.
Captives of this poultry train, we curse our mortal task.
Forgive us though we all must go in where to please don't ask.
For the jails in which I've done my time, I fail hard to regain.



You know that you've been real to those who's realness should be paid.