Working Stiff

Stagnating, hemmed in,
My mind reaches, grasping for
any wisp of creativity that dares
to sparkle through the dust,
that has not yet been trampled by
procedures, politics, pettiness.
I am so much more than you see;
You have no idea.
You buy eight hours of my day,
and I tick off every minute.
You will not get the best of me;
You wouldn’t know what to do with it if you had it;
So keep signing those checks, as
I make ready, as
I make my wings a feather at a time,
a dab of glue, a touch of wax, a kiss of hope.
Someday I will fly too close to the sun.
Finally.

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