Sleep is an endless journey,
only the dead can complete
Time is the fortune you can never
afford to have enough of
Love is the tie dye of the different
worn out emotions, of the shirt you say
Faith is the picture frame of the
final art piece, you hope will be portrayed
And sin is the spilled ink on a paper;
the more you try to wipe off yourself, the more
stains you're still left to see.

We live for any few more seconds of sleep,
constantly on this life's limited time to do it all
Trying to have a consistent abstract pattern  of our love
always picturing what our faith can paint in the end
Yet we are all stained by our born sin,
                    -we are truly humans till the end.