Day Eighty Nine: Stockade

This new scar on the Earth,
a thorn in the side of a city landscape,
is a monolith,
with two great spires rising
out from a cage of broken black mirrors and bricks.

A familiar sense of dread stalks the corridors
in between stairwells filled with make shift dread.
Inside, the working class is transformed from
machine operators and factory floor lackeys
to keyboard automatons chained to data.

Day after day it repeats.
Strip lighting oppresses the eyes,
while radio babble is injected into the ears
– complete digital solitary confinement
assaulting the senses, framed in computer screen blue.

The tinted windows change even the sunniest days
into oppressive overcast gray’s, robbing the world
outside of any sense of hope (or escape).
Metal cages shuffle internee’s from pen to pen
and grant them bail when the work day ends.

The shift change is a signal of hope
so that the workers don’t feel like it’s 25 to life.
However, the cycle continues day in, day out
repeating this morbid scene like flogger in a Kafka novel –
the next day when we return, we see the same thing.


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