If I am destined for Hell,
it will consist of cubicle catacombs
perpetually lit by long banks of bare florescent bulbs.
Teetering on the brink of bleak,
staring at a multitude of columns and rows
filled with inconsequential data,
I dare to decide
I need another cup of coffee
if only to warm my hands.
It’s Monday and I long for inspiration outside
of this mundane establishment.
With a recklessness borne by dire desire,
I risk the “write-up” and steal company time
to create a pittance of poetry –
exercising the audacity to think beyond
the working drone in a wasteland of compliant servitude.
If you hadn't guessed, I'm "off-prompt" again. Perhaps it is my mood or just that I have such a great and natural aversion to authority of any kind. I could have predicted that I wouldn't stay with a "guided" plan for National Poetry Month for very long... Ah well, maybe tomorrow's prompt will push me back in line -- or not. ;)
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