I sit in my prison cell
In the guise of an office
Endless to-do lists
And non answered email
There is no armed warden
Only the manager in the chair
Senseless as a moron
Dispensing orders without a care
My garb is Dockers grey
No standard state issue
Look good for the meetings
I still feel so fey
There is no time for good behavior
Just shaking the bush, Boss
Most people would kill for this
It’s all in the profit and loss
I have penance to perform
Spreadsheets and reports
Have them on time or else
Jesus, why do I conform?
Sensational... that box is nothing more then routines and obligations... But, we are free in truth and faith; which most seem to lack... Your poem is lovely... Keep writing, reflecting... and proclaiming! ~Lalita
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The box...our cloister...our body and the world is our prison. Anyway...interesting poem Celt. Laters...