The Working People
*****
Curse the people, who say,
Change is the only constant, don’t fray.
******
Life’s been always the same,
It’s not interesting like a chess game.
***
Dulled with monotonous day,
With little time to lay.
*****
Days devoured by the factory,
Lives shackled by the machinery.
******
Advancing one more step to the grave,
Shorting the days of their lives as slaves.
*****
Wrangling with themselves as they work,
Every bit of accumulated energy being sucked.
****
No innovative ideas ever streamed through their minds,
Only occupied by the heavy hum as that of trains.
*********
Life’s been always like that,
Grimy, greasy, stinky and matt.
******
Only delight on which life delicately sustained,
Was the evening when supper and rest awaited.
*****
Sinking eyes once again glittered,
Oil-smeared faces lit and glistened.
******
Respectable married ones longed for their family,
Privileged bachelors resorted to ale anxiously.
********
Their tired bodies go into deep slumber,
Dead still not even daring to lumber.
********
Feeling of complacency killing all life-long desire,
Awaiting eagerly to be kindled by any angel of fire.
******
Romancing through the slippery night,
Just to wake up and start another day’s fight.
********
Eyes protruding and bodies crumpled,
Faces grimaced and hair rumpled.
******
Scuttling out of their little grey houses,
Like a hoard of frightened cockroaches.
************
Basking in the crisp and dusty air of dawn,
Huddling towards the factory out of the town.
**********
Lives sacrificed in serving the so- called privileged people,
With certain solicitude, officialdoms call them: THE WORKING PEOPLE.
| 
Email this Poetry
| 
Add to reading list
