the rain streaks the house,
mist thick with sticky-sweat
like the furrow of your brow
amidst the drone of fellow worker bees
buzzing furiously in the hive, hollow--

this work we do,
this constant give

and

give,

to the corporation of fools
and zealots destined to become sheep,
however fully compensated & empty, too--

oh to have wings,
but be afraid to fly free
fast, strong & able
as a mind without a doubt, cellophane-
clear and successfully damaged
to take threatening direction,
to find the golden ticket
amongst racist Oompa-Loompas
but walk away from the true reason for being alive--

c'est la vie--