He walks on the gum stained sidewalk
of the city he calls home
wearing his neatly pressed soul usurper,
his fine silk noose straight and clean,
riddled by disillusionment, disenchantment
emasculated by the overpowering need to find
the control he lost when he dressed this morning

He dedicates 8,10,12 hours of precious life
to a concrete and steel Trojan Horse, trapped inside
the fortress of his mind, inside the fortress of his
cubi-hell, inside the fortress of the adult world

Worthless, wasted life given to those who couldn't
care less about his sacrifice
Those who don't know the value- the true value-
of life

He sits at his desk
-a desk not really his-
doodling on paper
-paper not truly his-
dreaming, thinking of greater times past
trying to keep them in mind
-a mind not truly his-
to get him through his self- induced torture