Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site

The Worker

Poetry By: steven cooke
Other


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.





2

| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.