My Job

This modern dance, an entrance,
It certainly abides in me.
I call it the profession of my dreams,
The dream does not end until I awake.
This is walking on a floor of a building,
Working like a fire in an oven,
Fisting the man in the street,
Fires burn in the camp for me.
How does the lying subside?
My bosses have reduced their work
And I am in symphony.

But suddenly the boss said I’m late
And I need to be absent for a while.
Performing is shunned,
The real deal has collapsed,
My job is complete, I have eyes with tears.
Tears completely expel drama,
This dance is over as I am late.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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