Sight in an empty world is a finger print in the mud.
An overturned drinking glass becomes my casket.
Manifestation of life is inevitable.
Experience spills into the reservoir of the unconscious
As death insults my mirror of progress.
Death is in vain.
Death wears a coat of many colors.
Time splinters into the endless realities of boredom.
Am I procrastinating or a slave to monotony?