Octopus

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.