Scurrying around
From their houses to their offices
And back around
Like a roach.
Neck bent and head held low
No different from a century slave
Peering into their smartphone.
With tired walks
Like those defeated
Backpacks which look heavy
Almost as heavy as the disappointment
They carry in their furrowed brows.
Driving through the endless roads
Criss-crossing the city
With stunning resemblance to
A rat maze.
Dragging themselves
And their lives on.
No passion No desire
Their minds having declared a cease fire.
Just the urge to earn
The paltry paper note.
The shine in their eyes
The fire in their souls
Mere things long lost like ghouls.
The only fear I bear
Is to become one of the corporate queer.
