Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori
I’m gazing out of the window.
The sky is clear blue,
And I watch a gentle breeze drift along the road with a soft purr.
I am at work.
Great Britain P.L.C.
I have nothing to do,
Except to pretend. To pretend to be doing something.
Even when I am doing something,
I still feel that I am pretending.
I try to ensure that I am observed doing something of importance.
From 9am to 5pm, with an hour for lunch.
I hope no one asks me what I am doing,
Or I may feel the need to confess that I am writing this poem,
To stop me going insane.
I hope my employer does not look over my shoulder,
To check that I am doing my Job, and sees me writing this poem.
Or I may feel the need to confess my hatred of myself, for being stuck here and being silent.
And then I’ll get a warning, or a lecture, and I’ll have to nod my head and bite my lip and accept that I am wrong, but I am not.
So I’ll stand up straight, and tell them it’s all irrelevant.
Think about your mortgage.
Everyone else seems so busy.
What are they doing?.
Dulce et Decorum est.
