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