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The Worker

Poetry By: steven cooke

Tags: Work

Work is for fools and horses. One can live for work or one can work to live. Either way a high proportion of your life is spent there. The question is was it worth it when the Reaper comes a calling?

Submitted:Mar 28, 2012    Reads: 5    Comments: 1    Likes: 2   

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.


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