Your tears of a golden hue roll as tumble weeds across a pasture

Sweat beads travel through a highway from your chest towards your hips

Arms raised to the sky waiting for some kind of rapture

The rain drops move the ponds edge to match the quiver in your lips

Even small shakes are formed at the core

Bored and alone, scorned off your throne might be the case

Or you might just stare at the abyss

Within infinite possibilities, where is my place?

Where can you trace the third eye beginning to paint its own cyst

Wandering through a series of articulate hallways

Finger paintings and rough sketches define this maze

A quill dipped in blood rewrites the phrase

To be or not to be

To me its honestly just another phase

A life long transition towards death