Working the Overnight Shift

The days have lost their purpose.
They're ordeals, observed by eyes
Which cannot close, and see in
Monochrome. Each day, a useless
Interregnum, like an orphan,
Lacks a name. The nights are all
That matter now, the grim
Accomplishment of tasks,
The drifting mind, the growing
Danger that someone or -thing
Will go unseen, oneself perhaps,
And be obliterated by the sleep-
Starved wielders of machines.
Such an end may seem unkind,
But any end to working nights
Contains a modicum of mercy.
Death would be a welcome
Respite from the coming day.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 60 times
Written on 2016-07-30 at 00:28

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