Covert poets of the cubicle empire
hearts aglow with soulful wildfire
stealing seconds and minutes
to keep themselves sane
amid the mind-melting workday
that gets in the way.
Secret scribbles
and sketchers of dreams
ride the blue night
sewn up in memory’s seams
We mouth the right words
our uniforms stay
but our souls still sour
in the true poets’ way
Our secrets are kept
within some kind of trust
as most of the bosses
wish they were us
