Work

I see:

Everyday on my office desk,
a someone, diligently
slow poisoning his soul.

Half dead eyes,
still drawing comfort,
by feeding out-grown infant dreams/full bodied unborn fears.

Every June, young recruits,
on welcome tour of invisible gallows,
infant dreams clinging to their breasts.

Dead man in sterile corner office,
sometime looking at paper flowers,
placed on his desk, with longing.

Well fed death rejoicing,
flaunting stealth weapon of  silent violence-
monotony of office work.

-Pulastya