Warm Blanket Distortion

A lilting wasp upon fellow mites

Finds a lack of true delight

Mixing joy with noxious grief

On bends to find his tempered needs

He learns to shed his self-control

For yearning roles which no one knows

And on respite he'll be a cog

To turn within machine man's locks

Addled by smoke but comforted too

He feels the warmth and settles soon

Accepting defeat, laying the stone

Upset by morning and its needless hello

The static brings a louder side

Within it hides a great divide

That serves to disconnect him so

Left to bake in the ovens below

A moth to the switch to fry on the dry

He learns to debate his moral outcry

And when he feels sober he'll rise to the day

And work for eight hours until he feels dead again.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I can't seem to find the connection that brought me here.

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