Shackles of Labour

the process of becoming a slave to your white collar
requires a trade you seek to
you cannot live for a living, without an ounce of mortality

self fulfilment is contained inside,
envelopes stuffed with blank cheques
bonuses are the oxygen of your work ethic

kaleidoscopic co-workers mutate around your vision
which stretch of flesh belongs to whom?
you perform mandatory chores with these strangers
you compliment them on their new vehicles
and ask about their families

who the hell are they?

names are just a necessity
their salaries label their exteriors

a shift works around your regulated heartbeat
the weekend arrives on a Friday evening
a handshake is in order

a lethal plague of idleness
ensures the levelling out of weekdays
and all hours merge into one incurable sick day
with no room in its diary for recovery