Myscha Dang-Harris

The thing about the Paperweight

And the office deadweight pinned beneath

His fate is forever bound to the timeclock tyranny

Of denying documents who dream of wind and flight.

Is he weighing down or being weighed down?

He’s a souvenir snowglobe

Imprisoning a breezy sea by ornate palm trees

But living as a roach hypnotized under fluorescent lights.

Frozen on papers waiting to be filed

Bored, trapped, and dead, counting ceiling tiles.