Will Friday ever come? The endless journey ever still,
Will sandals silt and stomachs fill,
Will there be the weekend’s baubles, eternity’s till
Open for business, taxed, a grinding mill.
Will the depths of a weakly repose be plumbed?
Its borders be crossed, traversed from grey to grey?
Will ennui’s hyperficial clag our fingers numbed?
Or will bodies lie down in perspex, hell’s present day.