How like a prison is this cubicle
So small I’m like a fish inside a net
My heart beats with a rhythm unmusical
As with sharp terror, I am now beset.
We, humans, were not made to be en-walled
Our ancestors were gatherers in the woods.
Now industry demands freedom be stalled
For production and consumption of more goods.
While executives in advertising work
In offices where they combine their words
Religiously like members of the Kirk
Yet envying still the freedom of wild birds.
Can we be ourselves in such a world?
Can we find the space between the words?