When you rise, you already know:
The lab waits, stale and still.
Same floor, dirt, same click of keys—
A day measured in dust, not thrill.
Forty hours, earned and owed.
The hands of clocks don’t tick—they tap.
Each second held like lab samples—
Precise, but hollow, neatly stacked.
You know the price.
Wear your coat, neat and white.
Glasses on, hair tied tight.
I check the time,
Just to be met with nothing new.
Lunch breaks stretch—too slow, too long—
Like the day itself drains the soul.
That awful smell,
Heating samples to a hiss.
The heat rolls out—
Burns your limbs, once blissfully unaware.
You finish early. Precision wins—
But time is a master, not a guide.
They won't send you home for clarity—
They only need your hours, not your pride.
The dirt beneath the microscope
Is cleaner than this worn routine.
What once was physics, full of light,
Now quantifies what might have been.
You didn’t light my passion—
I burned it to the ground.
Taught me nothing new,
Expanded only knowledge of life:
Forty hours a week—
A dead-end job.
You know the steps before you move.
Your badge, your desk, your shift, your face.
You could draw it blind, dream it still—
Each breath a brace for empty space.
You cry on days you can't explain.
Too much knowing breaks the soul.
Routine is a cruel scientist—
It tests your limits. Marks its toll.
But still, you rise. And still, you go—
Not for the thrill, but for control.
If chaos is the only other path,
Then monotony feels like parole.
I left the lab, but left much more.
A spark once lit by force and flight
Now physics haunts, not holds me close—
A love I lost to measured light.
Not every passion finds its path,
But some still shine from deep within.