at the office

The eyes shut.
Tired are they?
Of the sights seen,
The light’s sheen,
The explosion of colour,
The fatigue of the heat,
The gloom of rains, silence of the cold,
Of all that life has to offer,
Or asks in return;
In totality, the very morbidity of it all?

Aware are they,
Of this very eventual irony?
Is this why they rest in sleep,
Waking up to the world inside..?
That space where there is no money,
White and black are just colours,
And each shade is, therefore it is.
And you call me asleep,
As I shut myself
From the mundane drama
And treat myself to the reality within.

My eyes for sure know
That all of it is a joke.
Whether they read up omnibuses
Or witness scientific processes,
They know that the real world
Is the one they are often told
To shut themselves from,
On the opaque side of the mirror.
So I let them perch
And let the stage become a prop in itself
To live at peace
With the violence within.
I let myself sleep.