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By 'Bitchen' Ric
Morning at Work
The
burning lives within my eyes,
My mental capacity fails.
The ship of cloudiness sails by,
And deftly hoists its sails.
My being runs at slower speed,
Conclusions come too slow.
Supply of thoughts don't fill the need
the thought reaper comes to mow.
Minor thoughts are a major task,
The major ones a feat.
What's my name? Oh, please don't ask,
My memory's dead meat.
The forklift driver in my mind
Is running out of space,
For storing the lost bits of time,
And ideas I've misplaced.
And now my eyes try to close the doors
To say the workday's done.
But scows of tasks come to morning moors,
To show it's just begun.
The fog--confusion--rolling in,
And reason's out; with tide
come pirate ships of query-men,
I want to run and hide.
Fatigue comes in on little cat's feet,
And sits upon my lap,
I've got to find someplace discreet,
So I can take a nap.
Arjay
This poem copyright 1991 'Bitchen' Ric Johnson.
All rights reserved. Please contact me before using this poem.
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