kind of funny: it's then i get paid my wage,
not sure that's worth it when a pleb gazes sideways:
i'll take a shit on the clock
(but not literally, they're too high, right on the wall)
my pace & rhythm won't stop
a jot physically. i lose my mind to the chore,
Time is a whore & mine's such a bore.
you don't have it better;
we're all faltering. in this cold haggard weather
the air's raw. sauntering in a slow, ambled, measure
in a holed, fabric sweater's the soul's placid pleasure.
from a pen stems the sentiment,
it lends a line, or ten:
i remember being reminded i'm alive again.
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