There’s a man in an office
somewhere in the jungle,
who is convinced
that he’s dying.

He sits apart
in a glass room
waiting for help, while
other well dressed colleagues
go about their business,
typing, whispering, trying
to ignore that he is there
and that they could be him.

Like the sound of hooves
on the distant horizon,
the keyboards thud and thud.
When another can no longer
hack the pace,
best to just let them go,
pretend you haven’t noticed,
that you are still strong.

A ping pong table lies dorment,
colourful bean bags scattered,
artifacts to be found perhaps
by a future civilisation
who can’t understand
why this version of homo sapiens
was obsessed with electric boxes
which no longer work,
but never wrote anything down.

The chest pain lingers,
not as sharp as when
he knew his project
was about to fail.
But remains heavy
nonetheless,
as thoughts turn
to many
of the sacrifices
that have been made
to sit in this high office
amongst this silent
brotherhood.

He sits, waiting for that
someone to come.
Wondering how to leave
without those colleagues
not noticing him again.

The leather chair is comfortable,
and swivels without noise.
Holding him carefully,
as though it cares.

And in the glass and steel
that surrounds them all,
he knows himself to be dying.
Doing his best to distract
himself from the repeating
yet nagging question
that beats loudly alongside
his worried heart,

if upon the all clear,
whether he wants
to come and try
to live
this same life
all over again.

(Taken from Begin Again)