Day 59 (Questions from desks)

Liars will lay slow through days toll to tales tell and weak heart felling.

                                            Oh, lumberjacks of our hidden thoughts hack fast through bitter bark.

                               Swing quick with steel cold axe.

Now where is your slow drip the disturbed waisted prospect of nothing much in the much of nothing state of being you so seldom deny? 

                   Is the flannel wrap of your muscular structure torn by daily toils? 

       Does the sweat flick fast of fingers quick brush? 

                            Does closed chest inflate through swells of pride?

                                                                      Or

                

   are you strapped behind beige walls, twisting on undefined man's silver shining hook?

                                  Is the clock your whispering black master?

                                                             Or

                                  

                 better still have you sat below the working class?

   Thrusting paper personifications of ones tangled self in hopes of a simple bell and ring?

                Is luster of life the turquoise stain on your brushed copper plating?

                      This is the blessings miss counted of the modern era.