by the bulge of prosperity
surrounding a job in a room
with red-carpeted walls and
a white, life-less ceiling
that guillotines the dreams.
The windows won't let the
world in or the word out;
they are sealed tight by design,
to keep spirits at bay, allowed to dance
only in the rays that the
dusty glass panes let through.
And we look out,
to see purple mist rising from
the rains which give life for many,
while filling the moat around us
prisoners here;
it's official, the sentence.
(Ah! The cell called office cubicle)
2 comments:
finally light is dawning on me when it comes to ur poetry. i particularly liked a couple of lines when it came to this one. never knew that the gruff exterior of urs hides the senstivities of a poet.
you can relate to it just like anyone else, with dreams, in office can man.. thanks for the comment... and yeah "gruff" is the word. It keeps me safe you see, the exterier. and inside i can be prone and i can write...
Post a Comment