The Daily Grind
A poem
A poem
The alarm shrieks like a banshee,
jolting me from elusive dreams.
I grumble oaths, invoking curses
upon the inventor of this infernal device.
Reluctantly, I engage in the ritual shuffle,
donning cloth skins
to obscure my authentic naked self.
The transformation into corporate drone begins.
I quaff the bitter brew of breakfast, fuel for the tasks ahead.
The radio blares directives on proper modes of thought
and acceptable displays of emotion.
I grunt acquiescence.
Into the metal beast I climb, merging with the migrating swarm.
We inch forward, then halt, then creep ahead again
in no discernible pattern.
Progress is an illusion.
At last, I arrive at the sterile hive,
welcomed by the drone of fingers tapping plastic rectangles.
I sip more acrid brews, steeling myself.
Time to make the donuts.
I toil in endless meetings,
moving pixels for one master to another,
chained to devices that record my every gesture.
Such privilege!
The machine liberates me
when sufficient time has passed.
Back into the metal belly,
returning to my hovel to numb my mind
and prepare to repeat the ritual.
This is the apex of human society,
the fulfilment of millennia of progress.
How fortunate I am
to have reached these enlightened times!
Follow The Hub Publication for practical tips and inspiring stories.
Write For The Hub Publication — Submission Requirements
We amplify your bold voice and deliver your inspiring stories to our curious and hungry readers.thehubpublication.com