Near-Sighted

The grind of daily life and its pernicious effects.

Hands soaked again and covered with a diversity of waste,

fast and slow, fast and slow, an ever fluctuating pace,

All of us creep about like ants, knowing our places well,

whining and lamenting but unable to articulate to tell,

That this place is a dungeon with a clock to keep us confined,

The minutes while away, but the hour never comes on time,

We decay slowly, perhaps even imperceptible to ourselves,

only to drudge away for that tiny bit of wealth,

Yet, most do not question this system that they are sold,

preferring to remain subservient wage slaves that do what they are told.