Inside a Cubicle
We work inside a cubicle.
Our faces bathed in bluish glow
Like corpses at a funeral,
But if we're dead we don't yet know.
Instead we numbly press on keys
Within our lidless coffin row.
Complacency is our disease
For nothing changes day to day;
A truth a habit guarantees.
Yet soon this herd with faces gray,
These mindless, faceless, zombie-men,
Will shuffle off each on their way
To find our peace, some rest, but then
Once more at eight we'll rise again.
4 25 2019
Quirky Tercets Contest
Copyright © Jesse Rowe | Year Posted 2019
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