Overworked
Five sevenths they steal away from me,
everyone tells me that this is fine.
The hands march on, they do not see,
only the end of the week is mine.
I do not break my back with work,
in this is some solace, I suppose.
Instead from behind a screen I lurk,
though it is not the life I chose.
I could be out exploring the world,
witnessing empire, tree and mountain.
Instead, I’m hunched here, spine curled,
eyeing the minutes that I’m counting.
When one day it is time to pass,
and recall the things I’ve done,
I’ll first remember of the scent of grass,
whilst I’ve been strolling in the sun.
And though I do not know that day,
Or when it shall surely arrive,
another drone they’d sit at my bay,
for another life to deprive.