Office Work

Sometimes,

I pretend that I can play.

I let the data flow from my fingertips,

as they clack against the keyboard,

like the music from the long dead.

I turn numbers into Chopin.

I turn dates into Beethoven.

I dream against the monotony & pretend that I am grand;

that I am an artist.

The light trimmers sickly green

but in my sonata I am under the stars with you.

I breath recycled air

but in my symphony I am drawing in the pines,

completely unaware of the phantom dread I had once known.

Sometimes,

I pretend that I am an artist;

that I,

and my life,

are grand.