Slaves To Time
How many days are there, in our all consuming weeks
Not enough, too many, perhaps we need a little tweak
For people that slave hard, days don’t require a name
There just continuities of time, without a rhyme or aim
Earth just keeps spinning, and reality couldn’t care less
Moon hangs on in there, apparently not out of interest
Sun is a big magnet, holding our solar system together
Milky Way spirals a black hole, without any given effort
Life the only interested party, stands watching the clock
Remainder of the universe, doesn’t bother taking stock
God on the other hand, sees everything happen at once
Satan can pop up anytime, conjuring his cunning stunts
Ridiculous as this seems, our reality is the human mind
All is relative to the observer, good, bad, average, kind
Time’s definitely the driver, of linear inexorable wonder
Without its fatal effect, we’re dead in perpetual slumber
So how do we tweak our days, make them work in favor
Stop bearing progeny into poverty, for fodder and labor
My dog has it better, I’m disgusted to be brutally honest
The absolute insanity, unfeasible populations among us
This cycle must be broken, everyone deserving of a bite
Why do you bear ten children, unable to afford them life
Seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five, a year
Scavenging for tomorrow, furthering their slavery career
By
David Kavanagh
Copyright © David Kavanagh | Year Posted 2021
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