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--
(7.29.2017)