There is a chair,
There is a desk.
There is the clock,
There is the face.
The rush of tension,
The gory world of fear.
The sense of dread,
That makes you dear.
There is the work,
There is the life.
Sometimes a trophy to hold,
Mostly a double edged knife.
There is silence in mind,
There is a heart pushing fast.
The boss talks at leisure,
In doom, he will live in pleasure.
There is the time to come,
Not knowing when will one return.
There is a mirror image,
A dense,darker version of you.
There are mails,
There are documents.
There are phone calls,
Composed of sheer nonsense.
All you do is work till you drop,
Making someone say,why did you stop.
You have no answer and you lie,
Still on the carpet of the daily market.
