Everywhere man is in solitude,
hunched over, tired eyes, aching mind,
working the minutes away for some hopeful future.
To what ends?
withered bones, scattered ashes, fitted to a box,
to that end, we all slowly move,
inching on the conveyer belt,
the furnace blazes ahead,
the lucky ones feel its heat and see its light upon their skin,
perhaps they can change,
the unlucky ones go in blind, at once, right now,
the absurdity never hits them as they stand on the street corner.
We all meet the universal end,
the heartbeats but its life never reaches the limbs,
the limbs obey the slave mind,
which keeps the man hunched over,
for the mind is molded to obey as well,
and all there is left is to work,
as the hot blood grows cold,
as the sunsets perhaps for the last time,
working, working, working,
as if it matters at all.