As if stuck in a broken record
A flood, a storm
Of mechanical rain,
A nonstop clacking of keys.
Thick silence weighing down
On lowered heads and eyes.
A repeated procedure
Of just work, and work, and work
Mixed and poured into rotting minds
Taking life from withering bodies.
Missing childhood
Of picnics and sweets,
Of weeping cherry trees,
Of ocean-blue skies
And cotton candy clouds.
Of warm hotpot fire on snowy winter nights,
Of days less lonely.
Wishes and dreams
For time to cease
For the chance to fall back,
Back into warm childhood's
Blankets of solace,
Shielded far, far away
From this dreary real world.
-Mi
