We paste on our faces and squelch down our thoughts,
produce positive, can-do attitudes to adhere to the court.
Seething inside, maybe; overwhelmed, swamped under,
forever unable to give in to our thunder.
The days melt under the heat and converge into one,
a conjunction of swarming bees whose tasks are never done.
Bodies we are close too, silent they must be,
still encourage us with a gesture only we can see.
And after the hour-chains finally let us retire,
we crash under waves that we have perspired.
Treeshallow Musings 