A myriad of dreams flows,
Upon my future,

But I’m still reluctant,
To take such a prize,
That has been set up;

Is it such a resistance,
To acknowledge my true self,
I would rather hide
In my sloth?

Is it such a pressure,
To get it all done that,
I know not when,
Will it be the next post?

Unfortunately,
What my body can conceal is,
The present of a dreadful night,

In which,
Purple ghosts gamble
On my room’s table,
And figure out what task would
Come next;

Unfortunately,
My sweat is of a thirsty worker,
Whose hands compress,
The labor of a better life,

In which,
Salt & water give birth
Another minute for,
A nostalgia,
That is written
On a dusty scroll;

Yet God remains on his Throne,
Expecting me to find,
The key of the Light;

He longs to make some music thereof,
Whereas,
If he could dance,
Everyone would be a believer.