Watching the sun rise over the tired city trees.
Hot steam bringing life to walking dead dreams,
used to follow the current, subdued.
Left to rot.
Arrive on time,
Turn and press the button,
The same bleeds out the difference,
Quells the imaginary possibility.
The adventure is pushed into he broom closet,
Locked tight and covered in cobwebs behind
A disused mop bucket.
Flavourless tuna salad lunch.
Monday is every day, repeating over.
Friday is just a Monday in sheep’s clothing,
Closing an leaving illusory promises
To re-assessing the dreams of adventure.
But Saturday dawns, yawning with a fake
Beatitude of hardship, a covered reality of a different
Kind of work disguised as breaking.
It too is just as routine,
As the sun rising over still tired trees in a half sleeping city.
Waiting for something to break the cover on the safety
Glass alarm of freedom.
A Dangerous gambit to destroy the safely systematic, routine, boring.