steven cooke
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
Forcing my existence to
trickle 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
These too, will soon be gone
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