R.I.P. Free Time

There’s something amiss
About free time.
Here in this place,
Quite a crime.
To be so busy,
Like a bee.
What, a drone?
Or ant maybe.
The corporate sore,
And camera's voice
Cover our hearts
Lose its choice.
Ideas to be dashed,
Or dreams deferred.
Illusions from ails
Not being cured.
Freedom to gain,
Ours by right.
Play of the strings
Ends tonight.
Mind in an overload,
Eye strains.
Baby, I’ll just burst,
In these pains.

Copyright 2007