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
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2012
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