What Saviour
Not yet half of an hour old, is this dayA rooster hath crowed just, somewhere
The sun will fight an hour more before its light breaks the cloud and fog
Having risen and completed the necessary ablutions
I now stand, watching my own image
As I ritually tie a corporate noose around my bohemian neck, too tight
The yolk of servitude fastened firmly
I plunge out into the world again
To leave behind my haven of warmth for the bitterness of the working day
Blending into the shining traffic snake
I let my mind drift over many thoughts
Alighting here and there as a butterfly but never stopping long enough to think
Such thick smog and congestion shut out
My music and safety captured within
A beaten path of automatic action, the motorway awash with solitude
Shackled now to a desk and keyboard
Like an unruly slave I take my punishment
Bound unto the job that provides for without provision, I am nothing
My frame hunched, again, over the wheel
I navigate through enemy ships
Jostling with pirates on the tarmac sea looking for my harbour, my port, my home
Washing down a meal of discontent
With a glass of unsatisfied desire
I reflect on a day of disjointed direction and my life feels like a Dali print
The final escape to the freedom of the sheets
Is a glorious experience without compare
But even in this sacred spot the commercial screams still haunt me
They seek me out and wake me
Burdening my weary mind with nightmares
Unsolicited anguish that disturbs until the alarm saves me from the torment
But what saviour is the clock
Only to take the script of yesterday’s play
For a repeat performance today, what saviour in the clock, what saviour have I?