poetry, writing

Work Work Work for IT

The night grows colder as the hours wane.

Whirring of the refrigerator fills the silence.

Eyes grow tired staring at a backlit screen

Occasional scraping of a mouse echoes.

Work never ends in the world today,

Rare is the weekend open to just play.

The shift from 9 to 5, once the daily grind,

Is now replaced with always on, 3-6-5.

Are we burning candles at both ends?

Will we soon run out of wick?

Hopefully we can recharge somehow,

But we better make it quick.

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