The Office Guillotine Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

The brain sparks at dawn's faint edge,

a reckless engine, restless in its grind.

It chews through dreams,

spits out the leftovers,

blinks into focus—

coffee-stained mornings

and the sink of half-lit rooms.

It hums and groans like an old furnace,

pushing through the smell of toothpaste,

through the groan of yesterday's clothes,

through toast and jam and another burnt day.

And then—

the commute: a caravan of ghosts,

huddled in their steel capsules of regret,

brainless wheels spinning nowhere good.

But the real kill-shot,

the real axe to the neck—

is that damn office door.

There, the brain shuts down,

a sputtered lightbulb,

a soldier dropping its shield,

and you step in,

head empty and raw,

ready to slog through

another human zoo.

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