MAKING A LIVING, DEAD
5 days ago
1 min read
By Rosie Arcane
We shuffle through a revolving door
of compliance and defiance.
Heads to the ground
on a melancholy merry-go-round.
Trapped in a dim box, cracking and peeling.
Grey skin putrid in the thick air.
Crooked hands, once a thing of beauty,
click and tap the daily dance of duty.
Yawning voids grunt in agreement.
Eyes pinball around vacant skulls.
Stomachs are fed but not brains.
It’s a game of only gastric gains.
Bound until death or close enough.
Willing to suffer a little for a sufficient taste of life.
But the minutes are fleeting
when you’re reduced to just bones, breath and beating.