The Rigor

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It's the coveted 9am
Hoards of us get down the whistling train, 
Our bags full of papers and the technology knick knacks,
Our grim faces and the persistent belief that we are the center of our universe

We cross the bridge in tandem,
Like zombies on a kill.
Where are we going? Where are we headed?

Defining our own miserable realities,
And blaming life for yielding us a bad hand. 
Beggars pass by, so do the flower beds, the clouds, and of course other people
Oblivious to it all, we keep walking...
We keep walking until the door to our safe mediocrity finally opens.

And we do it all over again, and again...

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