Post by Amadeus on Dec 26, 2005 14:21:16 GMT -5
I sit transfixed by the lights flashing by the window.
Green, yellow, white, red.
The dry hot breath churning out of the vent.
I reach the destination and zombie like I walk,
Unwilling to go.
Forced legs creak slowly like old gears.
I reach this place, by the foot of the hill,
And I’m greeted my the strange sight
Of a rat, dressed as you or I,
greets me in his raspy, “genteel” voice.
I go farther on down the narrow hall way obviously built for the mice,
Foot steps echoing in a mocking way.
I put my coat in a place of imprisonment,
made of the alcove of the hive,
and make my way through the hallway,
with its echoed steps,
and rat in his hat,
to the place where they work.
They, the unknown people, reveled after opening the door.
Here was a sight that made me cringe.
Insects of all kinds working on machines,
of strange workings.
This place I could feel was run on sweat and misery,
the air was damp and chilled,
I felt a cough but as if the air refused it, the cough would not come.
There where caterpillars, big and their bright skins tight on their chest,
In places dark were the fat seemed to ooze out only to come back the next day.
Oh what un unfortunate fate for your body to boomerang.
The stick insects, for they must be all they had was bone and skin,
working on things that a millipede must tread,
or a man named Tread must have invented in a mill,
looking in the mirror,
trying to see if they could grow finer by this…thing…
where the floor moves under you, and you must keep up with it for fear of falling…
Here I am standing alone in the musty air only wanted the warm air of the outside and freedom of space…I run to the window but am sadden to fine I’m stuck on the treading of the mill, and every inch I gain I lose.
Then I lose my concentration on the humanity of my soul and become the basic life.
I become an insect…
…I’d rather be the rat…
Green, yellow, white, red.
The dry hot breath churning out of the vent.
I reach the destination and zombie like I walk,
Unwilling to go.
Forced legs creak slowly like old gears.
I reach this place, by the foot of the hill,
And I’m greeted my the strange sight
Of a rat, dressed as you or I,
greets me in his raspy, “genteel” voice.
I go farther on down the narrow hall way obviously built for the mice,
Foot steps echoing in a mocking way.
I put my coat in a place of imprisonment,
made of the alcove of the hive,
and make my way through the hallway,
with its echoed steps,
and rat in his hat,
to the place where they work.
They, the unknown people, reveled after opening the door.
Here was a sight that made me cringe.
Insects of all kinds working on machines,
of strange workings.
This place I could feel was run on sweat and misery,
the air was damp and chilled,
I felt a cough but as if the air refused it, the cough would not come.
There where caterpillars, big and their bright skins tight on their chest,
In places dark were the fat seemed to ooze out only to come back the next day.
Oh what un unfortunate fate for your body to boomerang.
The stick insects, for they must be all they had was bone and skin,
working on things that a millipede must tread,
or a man named Tread must have invented in a mill,
looking in the mirror,
trying to see if they could grow finer by this…thing…
where the floor moves under you, and you must keep up with it for fear of falling…
Here I am standing alone in the musty air only wanted the warm air of the outside and freedom of space…I run to the window but am sadden to fine I’m stuck on the treading of the mill, and every inch I gain I lose.
Then I lose my concentration on the humanity of my soul and become the basic life.
I become an insect…
…I’d rather be the rat…
