It was written on your forehead, “Here lies a humble,
obedient servant.”
You marched to the beat of a funeral procession, entering
the hearse that would bring you home.
Before me were hundreds more like you. In unison, you walked to the beat of a drum.
Your expensive leather shoes creaking against the ground. A melodramatic percussion. A melancholic sound.
You’ll lay six feet under your work, until you yell “Track 5”
with the masses,
and know you are going home.
No comments:
Post a Comment