Was he satisfied?
No he was not.
The time has come, the clock is ticking,
He is called, just before clicking.
Click
Morning at five,
He opens his eyes,
Bedsheet's been pulled out,
Time for his work.
A new day, a new start,
Monotonous, his new found art,
He's heading fast to catch the train,
This has become his everyday.
Sinking in his comfortable chair,
In front of the machine created by men,
Lost in his thoughts, his world, his science,
Something that he's creating since he was nine.
Theories, proofs, all in mind,
He made a calculation with what he thought was right,
Deprived from the support and time,
Forced to work for the machine in front of his eyes.
Sweat released but no interest,
No recognition to the new time he invented,
What to want and what to expect,
Do what is meant for you to accept.
The time is over, the relief is his,
Everyone there waiting for him,
Nowhere to go, he returns back home,
With a smile on his face, that only he knows.
Enough is the word left to say,
Escaping out is the only possible way,
Tears in his eyes, now it's his time,
Willing to complete the science that he left.
Was he satisfied?
No he was not.
The time has come, the clock is ticking,
He is called, just before clicking.
Click
Morning at five,
He opens his eyes,
Bedsheet's been pulled out,
Time for his work.
YOU ARE READING
Middle of Two Mirrors
PoetryPeople have different minds and different thoughts. There are different actions that define them. What you do, what you say, what you believe, everything is reflected. What you know is what you believe. Not knowing the truth, thinking of none, a ser...
