The Worker
Torn from sleeps oasis
The razor stings my mortal soul
A glance in the mirror to know I exist
For the face of god lies there
And behind this forced smile
A lunatic walks in the shadow of me
.
But within this admission
The asylum of my brain
Has a garden where sanity grows
.
For bound in chains we gather
Though wind and snow bar our way
Pouring through these asphalt veins
Clogged with cholesterol filled ambition
,
For Monday morning dines once more
On another workers soul
And all the while the tick of the clock
Winds down this drone
In happy reapers favour
.
But the rebels among us
Hide in the womb of our imagination
To keep the corporate illusions at bay
And my secret butterfly carries this tortured soul
To a place beyond the dollars eye
.
Where the snake rattles its distain for humanity
For solitude is all I desire
And all the while the clock ticks on
And my existence trickles down the cities throat
Quenching this monster they call progress
.
And as I crawl home through zombie minds
I feel sorry for the splattered fly on my windshield
For its freedom has ended
Yet my dreams of freedom linger on
Although within my heart I know
This too, will soon be gone.
| 
Email this Poetry
| 
Add to reading list
