My pen is the gateway to heaven;
divided by the speed
that my train of thought is traveling.
And in its seventh car I’m riding
trapped in a dream
constructing an army to unleash on reality,
where I sit half a sleep.
Here my soul struggles to get free, but
physical body is sunk in the train seat, and
mind is undecided of where to find destiny.
All that seems clear is the last line of a poem
blowing on an endless breeze
carefully woven by me.
Words spoken so eloquently,
without thought to help me see
my pen is the gateway to heaven.
A perfect place to die
and return to the living.