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Skyrise: Palace or Prison?
Brains are fickle things
Mine is a skyrise
With fifty floors
There is an open sign
seven days a week,
Seven thousand zealots
Devoutly at their keyboards
Tap, tap, tap,
Each floor oscillates in rhythmic unison
With the pulse of their caffeine ridden bodies
“Tell The Boss”
“Have you talked to The Boss?”
“The Boss can’t appreciate our work”
“She is lazy”
“Our ideas are worthless then”
“I hate her”
Work isn’t mandatory, but it won’t stop. It can’t stop.
They work too quickly for me.
Robert brings me his last report.
“You are undeserving of this place - of our ingenuity - a waste of its capabilities”
Ashamed, The Boss hangs her head.
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