Monday, April 13, 2009


He blankly goes to work each day
and says the words he has to say
while watching all his silly dreams slowly fade away
it’s true that time does not exist
although he wears it on his wrist
to monitor the misery that grinds him in the grist

but sometimes in among the chaff
he finds a morsel worth a laugh
and savors it just like a drunkard handed a carafe—
contentment is a carousel
that spins the other way as well
condemning everyone to find their own clause out of hell.


Jo A. T.B. said...

Ain't that the truth! The common folk keep dredging on! Isn't great to be a poet, to tell it like it really is!

rch said...

Power to the people!!

Bhuvan Gupta said...

Nice one