The phase of tension
is now paying its pension.
The time where your hands never unwind
has now made the mouths without a bind.
The time your foot steps into the hall of tensions
the brain rewinds the days you spent in detention.
The room of deadly silence
hears the race of time with a license.

The time you cap your pen
The time you unite the scale and pencil
The time you count ten
The time your brain and heart wrestle,
while you’ve been a conman
and you hand those sheets of your destiny that is confidential.

And when you step out of the den
as an empty utensil
Your soul awakes from it’s meditation, as of from Zen
and that’s when your tensile race begins.