With each day that passes
As I punch the metaphorical time clock of my unsurprising 9-5
I am less inclined to pay any attention to the requests of myself
Less submissive to depth of my heartfelt desires

The days go by in this giant circle of time
Trying to please the Man and the man I call boss
Wondering what he thinks of the work I put up
Is it great? Is it bad? Or just mere good enough

I watch the pattering lips of those I work beside
A slight tilt on their mouth as I walk through or right by
The chattering stops as my passage ensues
Was it me those sounds were being sung about?

The clock strikes five but the work doesn’t stop
The going keeps going because there’s much to be done
Even out the door, in my dreams I’m still in those walls
My heart beating to fear that I have not done enough

My greatest fear, I cannot say, is my quality of work
It’s the thought that this is it till the end of my mortal clock