Mind Factory

Prosaic projections,
Of everyday Mind Factory,
Stretch out beyond seamless eons-
As an endless drudgery.
The routine of 6-1,
Is a tortoise shelled and turtle paced,
Idea of someone else.
Keynotes of keypads,
Fill the drill-
With all political frills.
Drone on,
You slave -
Mindlessly you live your days,
And outlive your own ways.
Physically numb,
You become mentally numb too-
Climbing the rungs to hazy rings,
Of smoke and no fire.
Ranks and Banks,
Juggle your sense of self-
As your mission is no longer your own vision.
You live someone else's passion.
Are you even yourself?
Has your identity,
Perished in the ignominy of id-entity?
That too,
Guided by the selfish constrictions
Of another's lackluster dreams?
What is the end?
And what may lie beyond-
Are questions, mayhaps,
The ordinary refuse to seek answers to.
Choose to shut themselves in their islands,
Praying for inception to have mercy on the mice.
Are you rolling your own dice?
Or just struggling to find the truth in the lies?
Vain drain of brain-
Eroding sanity,
Corroding belief,
And fast transgressing to what fiction depicts
As an assembly line mortgage.
Trapped in the honeyed fibers,
Lashless eyes see no end, no beginning-
No mindbend-
A touch of creativity,
Seems alien and God-sent.
Sparks feel like off-shoots,
Pristine their clarity-
Yet dreary and unwelcome.
Thoughts find no form,
As the top-heavy ladder,
Gives no shape.
No rise,
No escape.
It's just a waste-
These wishful days of fancy,
When young impressionable minds-
Are caught up between ideal and real-
The friction becomes the charade,
One must evince dumbness too.
Progress becomes a process thus -
In this jaded Mind Factory.