I'm sick of work-its passing of time
It seems of no weight of which to carry
Buried we'll be; sooner than later
No briefcase to which you'll marry.

And quite possibly ponder
the essence of life
And meticolous in each of its wonders

The typical does not seem like the life for me
So I sit and watch them all be
What a mere afterthought couldn't resist

We bare this drowning weight
for a dollar
and in turn, a dollar,
no time-

How miserable can one be?

Am not one for them to muzzle- to preach upon chaos and hustle-when the roses seem ought to be smelled and stopped by,

And glory be to those who chase a mere afterthought
And die without currency
Because rags are much better than riches
But
Glory, oh glory.
Rats are much finer,
Than the porcelain dish from which one seeks
And if we are but born to struggle, and die even subtle
I will share seats with poor old myths.

if one job can define me, who will stand beside me, when my soul bids its final wish?
Our job here isn't struggle, I know its not subtle- but roses are life's finer gifts.
So stop and smell them.