Scurrying around

From their houses to their offices

And back around

Like a roach.

Neck bent and head held low

No different from a century slave

Peering into their smartphone.

With tired walks

Like those defeated

Backpacks which look heavy

Almost as heavy as the disappointment

They carry in their furrowed brows.

Driving through the endless roads

Criss-crossing the city

With stunning resemblance to

A rat maze.

Dragging themselves

And their lives on.

No passion No desire

Their minds having declared a cease fire.

Just the urge to earn

The paltry paper note.

The shine in their eyes

The fire in their souls

Mere things long lost like ghouls.

The only fear I bear

Is to become one of the corporate queer.

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