Poetry

I realise a thousand dreams
when i hear the voices of your creatures
thinking in there daily woes
working by a clock that is not your own
finding you by the door step
of what they think is the devil
do spare me one last hope
so that this magic i may medel

May be they have found me
and watch me day by day
to pollute me like the fish and oil
and make me wander and stray

But I like being a box,
just like they like being a cube.
Shall i just start starting over
with no finish line in a narrow tube.

No light in the near distant,
existing in the present now,
perhaps I should talk to a fellow human,
tell them to stop worshipping the golden cow.