At ease, confined inside a square inside a square,
One of a stack of forty, with a padded chair,
A desk which may be made of wood, but probably
Is molded out of some form of petroleum, a man
Is found. The window nearby doesn't open,
Just as well, as he would never think to try
To open it. The world outside this man-made one
Doesn't suit him too well now. It reeks of instability,
With light and darkness alternating, temperatures
Which are not fixed, and tasks which come without
Instructions, payoffs for achievements never known.
Sometimes, there are none there. The man prefers
To be inside, one cell within a larger creature lurching
Somewhere he can't know. He lurches with it, without
Thought. Human in appearance still, he's ceased
To be a man.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 170 times
Written on 2018-11-28 at 19:56

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A realistic portrait! Like the way you ended the poem, with a diminishing effect.