The Machine

Dressed and ready to labor leaving the house in a strange sense of wrong, questioning my choices.

How long must this last thirty years, Forty? What do I hope to achieve a pension a house or a little longer to labor.

A life of servitude to an unseen master and a perplexed work ethic for the sake of a reputation amongst slaves,

Why are we chosen to fulfill a cup we may never drink from or toast with, so all the world may sleep soundly.

Not I not for these soft handed scholars with a taste for more, my soul is my own and it will not suffer in this life.

To be a tool for another's purpose is to be enslaved, no matter what the reward for your hardworking will never be enough.

How do we live to serve others in this so called freedom this silent doom and gloom that fears chaos but promotes it everyday.

They promise payment plans and security but fail to mention bankruptcy and infidelity, they only give reasons to obtain the un-obtainable.

When did my possessions possess me why have I given so much and had so little in return.

We die a little each day through the slow ticking of time but I will not spend my time correcting others or doing what someone else deems fit,

My life, my soul is my own I'm not broken in for their dog and pony show or back bent out of shape nor a cog in their machine.

Just a wanderer of life and love until my debt to nature is paid I shall explore what there is around me so my rest is at peace.