Life in a cube.

In our mind devoid of time with the billions of lives flickering in and out. The city clambers with life. The metropolitan is detached and remains as a haven to the lost and weary eyed souls whose lives feign in the day and thrive in the night. Toiling for pennies on the dime. Dying from 9-5 and commuting to be compartmentalized in a cell. The coffee rings at the edge of your desk, the astray you’ve never emptied on your end table. The mounds of aluminum beer cans clang as another joins the heap. The fucking drab accents of tan suits and tacky ties. And that fucking phone rings off the hook. And you can’t escape, but why?

The filing of paper and folder to once again alphabetize the way we can’t seem to question order. Order is first. Order is foremost. Obedience like a thirst. But unsure to most. The clock rules your day. Never enough time, the things you enjoy steadily ticking by. Hands that never hold and around the face they go. Nothing ever fills the soul. Not one beer or five more, nothing to ease that steady sore. Oh the places we hide, or the times we tried. You open the fridge and the light doesn’t work another six pack if that whisky doesn’t loosen the hurt.