9 to 5 on a burning hill

Look for me on the hill that burned,
My eyes lay like ashes upon the sound of sleeping doves,
Grey and dull,
Waiting to be blown away by a cool breeze on a cold day.

Back upon broken ground,
I feel the leather bound grip of my sword in battered hand,
Our blood stains this scorched hilltop,
The great bloody beast lies dead.

His fires lit grasses and man alike,
His eye now staring at me,
He sees beyond my torn armor,
The wind blows hair matted with cold sweat and dry blood across my cheek.

What have you now beast?
That you would stare nothing at me with such impunity,
The ambiguity of death robs me of my victory,
I am a hero of men.

I see them now,
Fair maidens and fickle caring men all,
You shout to me of valor and victory,
Your call is bitter and empty,
full of obese reward.

Take back your favor fair maiden,
I will bear your beastliness no more,
You played kisses upon bloody valor’s lips,
Poorly dreaming of white knights unmarred,
Untouched by bloody valor’s score.

Whisper thus fickle caring men,
For I no longer wish to listen,
Romanticism lost in battle’s glory,
Honor, duty, love, all.

Bitterness the taste of tarragon upon my tongue,
My weary eyes call to be away from this hill of slaying,
As I rest away from fair and fickle calls,
Let me dream for a moment of predictable peace.

The final fires hiss and darken,
As I see through closed eyes a sound,
Red lines flashing a steady staccato beat,
Do not sleep as you dream.

Oh the alluring call of early morning,
A plain cup of coffee my greatest fear,
Two sugars or one? Two…
Will I be home before meatloaf?
Yes dear.

Tie aright and suit ironed with passing care,
I step into my paid yellow steed,
As loyal as the color of the whipped topping atop my pocket lint,
Green.

Work begins and work begat,
A simple pattern of monotonous repetition,
How beautiful it is.
Lunch at noon is a crossroads…sandwich or salad?

Mighty men around the water cooler,
We speak of nothing,
Women walking by to marvel at our ineptitude,
Fair maidens unimpressed and full dressed,
To resist bloody valor.

Five comes too quickly,
Mighty men and women of nothing in particular,
We make our ways home,
No great journey,
No great quest,
No fierce foes,
Unless you count the cab that never comes.

Finally,
Unloyal yellow steed,
You arrive with disinterest displayed across sweaty brow,
Rain on hood,
You bast...nevermind... $49.25.

Briefcase on the floor at my feet,
As I dream of 9 to 5 I sleep,
Asleep I dream of sleeping,
Tired from a long day at the office.

So fair and fickle men and women,
Wake me not as I slumber upon this burning hill,
For even though the dead dragon’s fires have died,
Aristotle lied when he said hope is a waking dream,
For it is in the sleeping dream that I find,
Hope,
And it is only within my dreams of the mundane,
That this hope is burning still…