EPIC Poem: The Corporate Sisyphus, by Jeffery Allen Tobin

I. Introduction
Part 1: Invocation of the Muse
you there—
slumped over the coffee-stained desk,
fingers thick with the grime of repetition,
eyes rimmed with the bloodshot weariness
of another day,
another dollar
scraped from the underbelly of a machine
that grinds your bones to powder
while you sleepwalk through
the ticking hours.

you, the quiet bruiser,
punching the clock like a broken jaw,
shuffling papers like a card shark
in a rigged game,
no applause, no cheers,
just the hum of fluorescent lights
and the drone of a thousand tired souls
in cubicles stacked like tombs,
gray as the ashes
that fill your lungs.

I call on you—
not the muse of marble statues
or golden laurels,
but the ghost in the machine,
the spirit of the worn-down,
the scraped-up,
the ones who show up
and keep showing up,
who carry their silent burdens
like a badge stitched in the lining
of a frayed coat.

rise up from the grave of the office chair,
let your back straighten like the spine
of a story untold,
the one they tried to bury
beneath a mountain of forms,
signatures, and deadlines,
the one that still beats
beneath the surface,
unseen, unspoken.

I call on the muse of resilience,
of grit and grimaces,
of the steady hand that clocks in,
the tired eyes that stare down
the endless task—
you are the spark in the engine,
the ghost in the wires,
the force that won’t let go
no matter how tight
they twist the screws.

give me your tired sighs,
your muttered curses,
your quiet rebellions,
for in these I find the rhythm
of a life spent
in the shadow of the machine,
and in these I find the muse
that guides the hands of the worker
and the heart of the poet.
Part 2: Setting the Scene
it stands,
a monolith of glass and steel,
a jagged tooth in the skyline’s mouth,
biting down on the city
with a hunger that never sleeps.
forty floors of nothingness,
stacked one on top of the other,
each level a layer of the same gray sediment,
pressed down by the weight of numbers,
each cubicle a cell
in the hive of the forgotten.

inside, the air is thin,
filtered through vents that hiss
like a snake you can’t quite see,
but feel,
coiled in the walls,
ready to strike
if you step out of line.

fluorescent lights hum overhead,
cold and sterile,
their flicker a reminder
that nothing here is meant to last,
not the bulbs, not the carpets,
not you.

rows upon rows of cubicles,
pale partitions rising like tombstones
in a cemetery of the living,
each one a box,
each one a coffin,
each one filled with the same stale air
and the same empty hours.

the screens blink on,
one by one,
green ghosts of data streaming across,
demanding answers,
but giving none.

you sit,
your chair groaning beneath you,
the wheels squeaking like a rat
trapped in a maze with no cheese,
no way out,
just more walls to stare at,
more corners to turn
that lead to nowhere.

the sound—
a low, constant hum,
the whir of machines doing what they do,
counting, calculating,
siphoning off minutes and hours
until the day is drained dry,
and you are left with nothing
but the echo of your own breath
bouncing off the walls
of this endless,
unforgiving machine.

outside, the city roars,
but in here, it’s all whispers,
the murmurs of keyboards,
the shuffle of papers,
the tap of fingers on plastic keys,
like a thousand insects
drumming out a dirge
for the living dead.

here, you are a number,
a file, a form,
a name on a list
that no one reads,
a face in a crowd
that no one sees.

here, time slows to a crawl,
stretching out like a shadow
at dusk,
until the minutes blur into hours,
the hours into days,
and the days into a lifetime
spent waiting
for the clock to tick down
to nothing.

this is the world you know,
the world they built for you,
brick by brick,
cubicle by cubicle,
until the walls closed in
and the sky became a distant memory,
something you glimpsed
once, long ago,
when you still believed
in open spaces
and the taste of fresh air.

but now, you are here,
and here is all there is—
this massive, soulless skyscraper,
this hive of empty buzz and flicker,
this machine that swallows you whole
and spits you out at the end of the day,
with just enough breath left
to do it all over again,
tomorrow,
and the day after that,
and the day after that,
until the calendar runs out
and the lights go dark,
one last time.
Part 3: Sam’s the Man
Sam sits,
cracking his knuckles over the keys,
a man built from bone and sinew,
but shaped by the grind,
the endless push and pull
of a life measured in reports
that never change,
only grow thicker
like the calluses on his fingers.

he is not a fool,
not some dumb ox
dragging the plow through the dirt,
but sharp,
sharp enough to know
that every stroke of the keyboard
is a drop in the bucket,
a bucket with a hole in the bottom
where all his hours spill out
and disappear
into the void.

day after day,
he clocks in,
settles into the chair
that molds itself to the shape of defeat,
opens the file that greets him
like an old enemy,
familiar and unforgiving,
a blank page demanding more blood
to fill its empty veins.

Sam,
with his mind like a knife
dulled by the constant scraping
against the stone of routine,
with his eyes that once held dreams
now glazed over
by the screen’s pale light,
with hands that once built
now only move to maintain,
to keep the machine fed
and his body clothed,
his rent paid,
his stomach full.

but there is something in him,
a spark,
a flicker of the old fire
that refuses to go quietly,
that whispers in the dead hours
when the report stares back at him,
unblinking,
reminding him
that he was not made for this—
not this endless cycle,
this death by a thousand keystrokes.

he feels it,
deep in his gut,
the pull of the other life,
the one he traded
for the steady paycheck,
for the illusion of security
that wraps around him like a noose,
tightening just enough
to keep him in place,
but loose enough
to let him breathe,
to keep him alive
for another day
of the same.

Sam,
with his heart in a vise,
with his mind tethered
to the task that never ends,
he knows the futility of it all,
knows that the mountain he climbs
each day
only leads him back
to the bottom,
where the same boulder waits,
ready to roll back down
over his hopes,
his quiet rebellions,
his small dreams
that now seem as distant
as the sun he barely sees.

yet he cannot stop,
for there is the rent,
and the bills,
and the cold fact of survival
that keeps his fingers moving,
keeps his eyes trained
on the screen,
even as the walls close in,
even as the clock ticks down,
even as he feels the weight
of that rock
pressing harder
with every passing day.

Sam,
who could have been more,
who still could be,
if only he could find a way
to break the cycle,
to shatter the machine
that grinds him down
and sets him back
on the same path,
day after day,
a modern-day Sisyphus
with no gods to curse,
only the cold, indifferent
glow of the screen
and the endless task
that waits for him
in the morning.
II. The Daily Struggle
Part 1: The Eternal Task
Sam wakes,
the alarm splitting the darkness
like a knife,
pulling him from the shallow waters of sleep
where dreams are murky,
half-formed,
and just out of reach.

he rolls out of bed,
feet hitting the cold floor
with the same dull thud,
day after day,
the sound of inevitability,
the first step in the dance
he knows too well.

coffee, bitter as the thoughts
he tries to shake off,
burns its way down,
fuel for the engine
that runs on routine
and nothing more.

the train roars in,
its doors gaping like the mouth
of some beast that swallows him whole,
along with a hundred other faces,
all blank,
all staring ahead
into the nothingness
of another commute,
another day
that bleeds into the next.

Sam leans back,
the seat worn thin,
and watches the city blur past,
a smudge of gray and steel,
a reflection of the life
that stretches out before him,
unbroken,
like the tracks that carry him
to the tower
that waits.

in the office,
the fluorescent lights flicker
their cold greeting,
the hum of computers
a dull roar in his ears,
filling the space
where thoughts used to live.

he sits,
the chair creaking
under the weight of his weariness,
and the screen blinks to life,
flashing the same report,
the same numbers,
the same empty boxes
that he fills,
one by one,
with the same keystrokes,
the same clicks,
until his hands are nothing more
than machines themselves,
mechanical,
detached,
moving through the motions
like a ghost trapped in a loop
of its own making.

and then—
the glitch,
the freeze,
the sudden crash
that wipes it all away,
leaving him with nothing
but the blank page
staring back,
daring him to start again.

or worse,
the boss,
his voice a sharp edge
cutting through the air,
demanding changes,
revisions,
a new direction
that leads nowhere
but back to the beginning,
where Sam stands,
once more,
at the foot of the mountain.

the report is his rock,
heavy and unyielding,
a burden he lifts each day
only to watch it roll back down,
crushing the hours beneath it,
flattening his spirit
until it’s just a sliver
of what it once was.

he knows the absurdity,
feels the madness creeping in
as he starts again,
and again,
and again,
the same numbers,
the same boxes,
the same report
that never ends,
only resets,
a cycle without mercy,
without meaning.

Sam,
with his hands on the keys,
his eyes on the screen,
his heart somewhere far below,
deep in the earth
where the roots of his frustration
twist and tangle,
knows that he is Sisyphus,
pushing his boulder up a hill
that never peaks,
a task that mocks him
with its futility,
its cold, mechanical cruelty.

but he pushes on,
because there is nothing else,
no other way but forward,
even if forward
is just a different shade of back,
even if the summit
is just another flat line
on the endless graph
of his life.

this is the grind,
the daily struggle,
the eternal task
that defines him,
breaks him,
and somehow
keeps him going,
one keystroke at a time,
one step closer to the top
that never comes.
Part 2: Encounters with the Corporate Gods
they sit,
high above,
in offices made of glass,
the walls so clear
you’d think they were transparent,
but they’re not—
they’re mirrors,
reflecting only themselves,
their polished shoes
never touching the ground
where the real work is done.

Mr. Progress—
he’s the king of this hill,
the CEO with the Midas touch,
everything he sees
turns to gold in his eyes,
or it’s dust,
and dust is swept away,
forgotten like the names
of those who couldn’t keep up
with his vision,
his obsession with the numbers
climbing ever higher,
stretching towards the sky
like an impossible ladder
with no end,
no top,
just endless rungs
made of the backs
of the ones below.

he doesn’t see Sam,
not really,
just another piece of the machine,
another cog
in the great wheel
of productivity,
and that wheel must turn faster,
must churn out more
with less,
must never stop,
not for breath,
not for thought,
not for anything
but the next quarter’s goal,
higher and higher
until the air is too thin
to breathe.

his voice,
when it comes down
from the mountain,
is a commandment,
a decree—
more, always more,
and when it’s not enough,
it’s Sam’s fault,
it’s everyone’s fault
but his own,
because he is Mr. Progress,
and progress never looks back,
never pauses,
just pushes forward,
relentless,
merciless.

then there’s Ms. Efficiency,
her eyes like cold steel,
her heart a calculator,
clicking and clacking,
finding the most cost-effective way
to slice through the flesh
of the budget,
to cut the fat
until only the bones remain,
and even those
are up for review.

she measures lives
in decimal points,
in margins of error,
in the savings wrung
from the sweat of others,
never her own—
she’s too smart for that,
too calculating,
too efficient
to ever break a sweat.

she looks at Sam
and sees a number,
an equation that needs solving,
and the solution
is always less—
less time,
less pay,
less people,
because efficiency
demands sacrifice,
and the ones who pay
are never the ones
who make the rules.

and then there’s Mr. Compliance,
the enforcer,
the gatekeeper,
the one who keeps the machine
running smooth,
who oils the gears
with rules and regulations
so thick and dense
they suffocate any spark,
any flicker of individuality
that might flare up
and burn too bright.

he speaks in policies,
in the fine print
that no one reads
until it’s too late,
until they’re caught
in the web of conformity
he spins so well,
trapping them in the code,
the handbook,
the way things have always been done
and always will be
as long as he’s there
to enforce the law,
to stamp out the rebels,
the dreamers,
the ones who dare
to question the machine.

he watches Sam
with eyes like a hawk,
waiting for the slip,
the stumble,
the mistake
that will bring the hammer down,
because rules are rules,
and there’s no room
for anything else
in Mr. Compliance’s world.

they sit,
these corporate gods,
aloof and untouchable,
issuing their edicts
from on high,
unaware,
or perhaps uncaring,
that each word they speak
is another weight
on the shoulders
of those below.

Sam feels it,
feels the rock grow heavier
with each new decree,
each demand for more,
each cut,
each rule that tightens the noose
around his neck,
until he’s gasping for air
that never comes.

he knows they don’t see him,
don’t see any of them,
just numbers on a screen,
just targets to be met,
just problems to be solved
by squeezing harder,
pushing further,
until there’s nothing left
but dust
and echoes.

and so he pushes,
and they push back,
this endless game of tug-of-war
where the rope is frayed
and the ground beneath his feet
is crumbling,
but still, he pulls,
because that’s the only way
to survive in this world,
where the gods are cold
and the mountain is steep
and the rock just keeps
getting heavier.
Part 3: The Isolation
Sam moves through the office
like a ghost,
invisible in a sea of faces,
each one as blank
as the walls that hold them in.
they shuffle past,
heads down, eyes glazed,
mumbling their hellos,
their how-are-yous,
but it’s all smoke,
all mirrors,
words without weight
that vanish before they reach him.

he sits in his cubicle,
surrounded by the hum
of a hundred machines,
the click-clack of keys,
the dull buzz of voices
talking in circles,
but none of it touches him,
none of it breaks through
the thin glass shell
that encases his world.

he’s a man alone,
in a crowd of the lonely,
a chorus of the disconnected
singing in a minor key
that no one hears.
he could scream,
but his voice would be swallowed
by the white noise,
by the endless hum
that drowns out
every thought,
every dream
that once flickered
in his mind.

there was a time,
wasn’t there?
a time when the world
was wide and open,
when the sky stretched out
like a canvas
waiting to be painted
with the colors of his life.
he remembers—
just barely—
the feel of the sun
on his face,
the wind in his hair,
the taste of freedom
that lingered on his tongue
like the last sip
of a good drink.

he had plans,
he had dreams,
didn’t he?
a life that was more
than this,
more than the routine,
the grind,
the empty hours
that stack up
like bricks
in a wall
that grows taller each day,
blocking out the light,
trapping him
in the shadows.

he thought he’d find security here,
thought he’d find peace
in the steady paycheck,
in the rhythm of the nine-to-five,
but all he found
was a prison
with walls made of paper,
with bars made of screens,
where the only escape
is the clock
ticking down
to five o’clock
and the long, slow walk
to the door.

but even then,
he’s not free,
because the weight follows him,
a shadow that clings
to his heels,
whispering in his ear
as he steps out
into the night
that this is all there is,
that this is all
he’ll ever know.

he tries to remember
the faces of friends,
the laughter,
the nights spent dreaming
of something bigger,
something better,
but the memories are faint,
fading like old photographs
left too long in the sun.

they’re gone now,
those friends,
those dreams,
lost in the shuffle,
in the pursuit of something
he can’t even name,
something he thought
would bring him
a sense of worth,
a sense of place,
but all it brought
was this—
this hollow feeling,
this emptiness
that echoes in his chest
like the sound of footsteps
in an empty hall.

he looks around,
at the faces passing by,
at the eyes that never meet his,
and he knows
they’re all alone too,
each one trapped
in their own little world,
each one carrying the same burden,
the same quiet despair
that wraps around them
like a shroud.

but they don’t talk about it,
they don’t share the weight,
they just nod and smile,
just go through the motions,
each one waiting
for someone else to break,
to crack the shell,
to reach out
and touch the loneliness
that binds them all together,
but no one ever does.

so Sam sits,
in his cubicle,
in his own small corner
of the universe,
watching the world move past
like a silent film
with no sound,
no color,
just shades of gray
and the faint outline
of a life
he once thought
he could have.

and he knows,
deep down,
that he’s lost something
he can never get back,
something that slipped away
when he wasn’t looking,
while he was busy
chasing the next deadline,
the next task,
the next meaningless goal
that leads him nowhere.

and in that realization,
he feels the weight
grow just a little heavier,
feels the isolation
press just a little harder,
until he’s not sure
where he ends
and the silence begins.
III. Moment of Rebellion
Part 1: Spark
it’s a small thing,
really,
just another glitch in the system,
another flicker on the screen,
the same report he’s typed out
a hundred times before,
disappearing into the void
with a click,
a freeze,
a crash
that wipes it all clean,
leaving him staring at nothing,
at the empty space
where hours of his life
used to be.

he feels it then,
a twitch,
a flicker of something
deep inside,
something that’s been buried
under layers of routine,
of resignation,
of just getting by,
but now it rises,
slow and steady,
like a bubble of air
in a deep, dark pool.

he stares at the blank screen,
at the blinking cursor
taunting him,
waiting for him to start again,
to rebuild the same
worthless tower of words,
and he feels the bubble rise,
feels it press against his chest,
against his throat,
until it bursts
into a quiet laugh,
a sound that surprises him,
as if it came from someone else,
someone who still remembers
how to feel something
other than numb.

he glances around,
but no one notices,
no one hears the laugh
that barely escapes his lips,
because they’re all trapped
in their own little worlds,
their own screens and tasks,
their own private hells
that look a lot like his.

but that laugh,
that small, insignificant sound,
it’s the spark,
the tiny flame
that lights something inside him,
something he thought
had long since burned out.

he feels it now,
growing,
as he starts the report again,
but this time,
he doesn’t follow the script,
doesn’t type out the same old lines,
the same old lies
they expect him to repeat.

instead, he adds a word here,
a phrase there,
nonsense, really,
but it’s his nonsense,
his little rebellion,
hidden in plain sight,
where no one will see it,
where no one will care,
but it’s there,
and that’s what matters.

and when the system crashes again,
as it always does,
he doesn’t curse,
doesn’t groan,
just smiles,
because he knows
it doesn’t matter,
none of it matters,
and that’s the joke,
the punchline
to the sad, sorry story
they’ve all been living.

so he takes his time,
takes a longer break,
lets the minutes tick by
without a care,
without the usual rush
to get back to the grind,
because the grind
doesn’t own him,
not anymore.

he starts to see the cracks,
the places where the system
isn’t as solid as it seems,
where the walls are thin,
and the whole damn thing
might just come crashing down
with the right push,
the right shove
in the wrong direction.

he starts helping out a colleague,
a small favor,
slipping them a tip
about how to beat the clock,
how to game the system
just a little,
just enough
to make their day
a little easier,
a little less crushing.

it’s nothing big,
nothing that’ll change the world,
but it’s enough
to make him feel
something again,
something real,
like a breath of fresh air
in a room that’s been closed off
for too long.

Sam knows it’s just the start,
just a flicker of the flame
that’s been smoldering
inside him,
waiting for the right moment
to catch,
to spread,
to burn down
the whole damn place
if it has to.

and maybe,
just maybe,
he’ll be the one
to strike the match,
to light the fire
that’ll finally
set him free.
Part 2: Allies in the Shadows
it starts with a glance,
a nod,
a look that lingers
just a little too long,
as if saying,
“yeah, I see it too,
this mess, this joke
they call a job.”
that’s how he finds Lena,
the graphic designer
with the spark in her eyes
that says she was meant for more
than coloring inside the lines
they’ve drawn for her.

she’s got talent,
no one doubts that,
but talent doesn’t mean shit
in a place like this,
where creativity’s strangled
by the hands of Ms. Efficiency,
where every bright idea
gets smothered in a pillow
of cost-cutting measures
and mind-numbing revisions.

Lena knows it,
feels it like a weight
on her chest every day,
but she’s got this fire,
this quiet rebellion
in the way she slips in
a splash of color,
a hidden message
in every project,
something that only those
with eyes to see
will catch.

Sam catches it,
sees the sly smirk
when she hands over a design
that’s been approved
by the blind gods above,
but only because
they don’t look close enough
to see the truth
hidden in plain sight.

then there’s Tom,
the janitor,
the man with the mop and the keys,
the man who’s seen it all,
heard it all,
but keeps his mouth shut,
because he knows
there’s power in silence,
in knowing where all the bodies are buried,
where all the secrets lie
in the cracks of the walls
and the corners of the rooms
no one else bothers to clean.

Tom’s been quietly resisting
in his own way,
taking his time,
doing the job just well enough
to stay invisible,
but never enough
to satisfy the unquenchable thirst
of Mr. Progress,
that bastard who thinks
every second saved
is another drop of gold
in his already overflowing cup.

Tom knows better,
knows that this place
is rotten from the inside out,
and he’s not above
leaving a little dirt
where it’s least expected,
a little mess
that makes someone’s day
just a bit harder,
a bit more frustrating,
because he knows
they deserve it.

and then there’s Jade,
the coder with the sharp mind
and the sharper tongue,
who’s been toying with the idea
of hacking the whole damn system
just to watch it burn.
she’s got a dry wit,
a way of cutting through the bullshit
with a single line,
a single look
that says more than words ever could.

she’s tired of writing code
for programs that do nothing
but keep the machine running,
keep the wheels turning
while the rest of them
get ground down
to dust.

she’s thought about it,
more than once,
how easy it would be
to slip in a line of code,
to tweak the system
just enough
to cause a little chaos,
a little confusion,
to make the gods up high
sweat for a change,
to see them scramble
when things don’t go
exactly as planned.

so when Sam finds them,
when they find each other,
it’s like a spark to dry tinder,
like the start of something
that could be big,
or could burn out
before it ever really begins.

they start small,
because that’s how it’s done
in a place like this,
where every move
is watched,
where every breath
is measured,
where every act of rebellion
could be your last.

but they plan,
in hushed voices,
in stolen moments
when no one’s looking,
and they share their grievances,
their frustrations,
their dreams of something more
than this endless grind.

Lena slips in her designs,
Tom leaves his marks,
and Jade—
well, Jade’s just waiting
for the right moment
to pull the trigger,
to send that line of code
cascading through the system,
like a pebble that starts an avalanche,
like a match that lights a fuse.

they know the risks,
know that if they’re caught,
it’s game over,
but that doesn’t stop them,
doesn’t slow them down,
because they’ve all felt
the same emptiness,
the same hollow ache
that comes from knowing
you’re just a cog
in a machine
that doesn’t give a damn
about you.

so they push,
they prod,
they poke holes in the walls
that hold them in,
testing the limits,
looking for the weak spots,
for the cracks
where the light can get in,
and maybe, just maybe,
where they can find a way out.

they’re not heroes,
not martyrs,
just people who’ve had enough,
who’ve seen too much,
who’ve tasted the bitterness
of a life spent chasing something
that always slips through their fingers.

but together,
they’re something more,
something stronger,
a force that might just be enough
to tip the scales,
to shift the balance,
to shake the foundations
of the tower
that looms over them all.

and in the shadows,
they find a kind of hope,
a kind of strength
they’d almost forgotten,
a strength that comes
from knowing
they’re not alone,
not anymore.
Part 3: Small Victories
it starts with a laugh,
a real one,
the kind that shakes the dust
off the corners of your soul,
when Lena shows Sam
the new company logo
she slipped past the higher-ups—
a sleek, modern design,
all clean lines and sharp edges,
but if you tilt your head
just so,
you’ll see it,
the subtle flick of her wrist,
the hidden middle finger
tucked neatly
in the negative space.

it’s genius,
and it sails through
the endless rounds of approval,
straight past Mr. Progress
and Ms. Efficiency,
who wouldn’t know art
if it bit them in the ass.
they see what they want to see,
just another piece
of corporate branding
to slap on the latest report,
but Sam and Lena,
they know better,
and they share a grin,
a little piece of rebellion
snuck in under the radar.

and then there’s Jade,
with her fingers dancing
across the keyboard,
a quiet storm of ones and zeroes,
her dry wit sharper than ever.
she’s been tinkering,
just a bit,
just enough to make the system
hiccup,
to throw a wrench in the works
without raising any red flags.

the first time it happens,
they’re all watching,
holding their breath
as the screen flickers,
and the great machine stutters,
just for a moment,
just long enough for a few files
to vanish into the ether,
a couple of important emails
to find their way
into the wrong inboxes.

Mr. Compliance looks puzzled,
scratches his head
and mutters something
about gremlins in the system,
while Jade smirks
behind her coffee mug,
her eyes gleaming
with that wicked spark
that says she’s just getting started.

Tom’s no slouch either,
making his rounds
with a mop and a knowing smile,
leaving little surprises
where they’re least expected.
a few sticky notes switched,
a misplaced folder here,
a jammed copy machine there—
nothing big,
nothing that’ll get him caught,
but enough to make the bosses
break a sweat,
to watch them scramble
like ants in a flood
when things don’t go
exactly as planned.

they don’t do much damage,
not really,
just enough to remind the gods
that they’re not infallible,
that the machine
can still be bent,
if not broken.

and in the break room,
over cheap coffee
and stale donuts,
they share these victories,
these small acts of defiance,
and they laugh—
a deep, belly laugh
that echoes through the walls,
a laugh that tastes like freedom,
even if it’s only a sip.

they know it’s not enough,
not yet,
but it’s something,
and that something
is more than they’ve had
in a long time.

each small win,
each glitch in the system,
it’s a crack in the foundation,
a chip in the armor
of the towering beast
that looms over them.
and with every laugh,
every shared grin,
they feel a little lighter,
a little stronger,
like maybe,
just maybe,
they can keep this up,
can push a little harder,
until the cracks
become a fracture,
until the fracture
becomes a break.

they know it won’t be easy,
that the system
is bigger, stronger,
but they’ve got something
the gods don’t have—
they’ve got each other,
and they’ve got nothing to lose.

so they keep at it,
one small victory at a time,
one little act of rebellion
after another,
until the weight of it all
feels just a bit lighter,
until the boulder
doesn’t seem so heavy
after all.

and in the quiet moments,
when the office hums
with the sound of machines
that don’t know they’re being outsmarted,
they share a look,
a nod,
a silent promise
to keep fighting,
to keep pushing,
because the small victories
are all they have,
and for now,
that’s enough.
IV. Descent into the Abyss
Part 1: Backlash
it was bound to happen,
like the sun rising after a long, dark night,
like the hammer coming down
on the nail that stuck out
just a little too far.
the gods, they finally noticed—
the little cracks in their perfect machine,
the glitches, the whispers in the dark
that didn’t quite fit
into their tidy spreadsheets
and quarterly reports.

security tightens like a noose,
cameras swiveling to catch every breath,
every twitch of a finger
on the keys.
there’s a new system update,
an extra layer of surveillance,
like a black cloud
rolling in from the horizon,
blocking out the sun
and casting everything
in shadow.

the air thickens,
becomes harder to breathe,
the hum of the office
turning into a low, menacing growl,
the weight of the unseen eyes
pressing down
on every shoulder,
on every thought
that might have wandered
just a little too far
from the script.

Sam feels it first—
the cold hand of Mr. Compliance
on his shoulder,
his voice like a razor,
cutting through the thin veil
of Sam’s quiet rebellion.
there’s a meeting,
of course,
behind closed doors,
where the walls have ears
and the chairs are uncomfortable
on purpose.

“we’ve noticed some irregularities,”
Mr. Compliance says,
his eyes dead,
his smile a thin line
drawn with a ruler.
he talks about rules,
about expectations,
about the way things are done
around here,
and how Sam’s been
just a little too creative,
a little too loose
with his duties.

Ms. Efficiency is there too,
cold as ever,
her fingers tapping on a tablet
where Sam’s sins
are neatly cataloged,
each one a line item
in a report
that reads like an obituary
for his career.
she doesn’t look at him,
doesn’t even acknowledge
his presence,
just slides another stack of work
across the table,
as if to say,
“this is what you get
for stepping out of line.”

and then there’s Mr. Progress,
the big man himself,
breezing in like a storm,
with his booming voice
and his empty promises.
he doesn’t even bother
to address Sam directly,
just talks over him,
around him,
as if he’s not even there.

“we expect more,”
he says,
“more output,
more dedication,
more results.”
and Sam knows
what that means—
longer hours,
heavier loads,
and the slow, grinding realization
that he’s become a target,
a cautionary tale
for the others to whisper about
when the gods aren’t listening.

the group feels it too,
the shift in the air,
the sudden weight
of being watched.
Lena’s smile fades,
her bright designs
dimming to gray,
as she wonders
if it’s worth it,
if the small victories
are worth the risk
of losing everything.

Tom moves slower now,
his rounds taking longer,
his eyes darting to the corners
where the cameras blink red,
little eyes that never sleep,
never blink.
he knows the score,
knows that a misplaced mop
could be the last straw,
the one that snaps his neck
like a twig
under the boot
of Mr. Progress.

Jade is the last to crack,
her sharp wit
dulled by the creeping dread
that maybe, just maybe,
they’ve gone too far,
that the line she’s been walking
has suddenly grown razor-thin,
and one wrong step
could slice her open,
spill her secrets
for all to see.

they gather in the break room,
the place that once felt safe,
now heavy with the weight
of what they’ve done,
of what might come next.
there’s talk of backing off,
of laying low,
of letting the machine
roll on without them,
because the thought of losing their jobs,
their paychecks,
their security,
is a shadow that looms larger
with each passing day.

Sam looks at them,
his allies,
his friends,
and he feels the doubt
creep in,
the same doubt
that gnaws at his bones
when the lights go out
and the world is quiet.
he knows they’re right,
knows that the smart thing to do
is to fold,
to play the game
by the rules
and hope the gods forget
their little indiscretions.

but there’s something else too,
a fire that still burns,
even if it’s just a flicker,
a stubborn flame
that refuses to die,
that whispers to him
in the dark,
telling him
that the fight isn’t over,
that the machine
can still be beaten,
even if it costs them everything.

they don’t decide,
not yet,
not here,
but the doubt lingers,
clings to them
like a second skin,
and the small victories
that once tasted so sweet
now feel like ashes
in their mouths.

the abyss yawns wide,
and Sam can feel its pull,
but he’s not ready
to fall in,
not just yet.
Part 2: Crisis
it hits him
one morning,
just like that,
like a punch to the gut
he didn’t see coming,
leaves him breathless,
staring at the screen
that’s been his prison,
his altar,
his confessional booth
for longer than he cares to remember.

he’s typing,
just another report,
just another day,
and suddenly
it all feels so damn pointless,
like he’s pushing water
up a hill
with his bare hands,
watching it spill back down
as fast as he can scoop it up.

the small victories,
the laughs they shared,
the subtle jabs
at the machine,
they’re nothing
but smoke rings
blown into the wind,
dissipating before they even
have a chance to settle,
to mean something.

he leans back,
lets his fingers fall away
from the keys,
and for a moment,
just a moment,
he wonders
what the hell he’s doing here,
why he’s still fighting
a battle that’s already lost,
a war where the enemy
never bleeds,
never tires,
never stops.

it’s a deep, dark hole
he’s staring into,
a pit of endless tasks,
meaningless motions,
a carousel of empty days
spinning round and round
with no end in sight,
and all he can think is,
what’s the point?

he’s tired,
bone-deep tired,
and the thought of going on,
of pushing that rock
up the hill one more time,
only to watch it tumble back down,
crushing every small hope
he’s managed to keep alive,
it’s enough to make him want to
just let go,
let it roll over him
and be done with it.

maybe they’re right,
those voices in the dark,
whispering that it’s all for nothing,
that the machine is too big,
too strong,
too well-oiled
to ever be brought down
by a few small cracks,
a few minor glitches
that don’t even register
on the gods’ radar.

he thinks about quitting,
about walking out the door
and never looking back,
about leaving the fight
to someone else,
someone who still has
the energy,
the fire,
the belief
that change is possible,
that resistance
isn’t just a fool’s game.

but then he thinks about
the rent,
the bills,
the long list of reasons
why he can’t just walk away,
why he needs this job,
this paycheck,
this miserable, soul-sucking
routine
that keeps the lights on,
keeps him fed,
keeps him alive
in the most basic sense
of the word.

and then,
there’s the other option,
the one that makes his stomach turn,
but it’s there,
lurking in the back of his mind,
a shadow of a thought
that maybe, just maybe,
he could conform,
play the game
by their rules,
keep his head down,
his mouth shut,
and become what they want him to be—
a cog,
a number,
a good little worker bee
in the hive.

it wouldn’t be hard,
he thinks,
not really.
he could fake it,
go through the motions,
give them what they want
and take what he needs
in return—
a steady paycheck,
a roof over his head,
a life that’s quiet,
predictable,
numb.

but the thought makes him sick,
makes his skin crawl
with the cold sweat of fear,
because he knows
that once he gives in,
once he lets go of the fight,
even for a moment,
he’ll be lost,
swallowed whole
by the very thing
he’s been struggling against,
and there’ll be no coming back.

so he sits there,
fingers hovering over the keys,
staring at the screen
that blinks back at him
with its cold, dead eye,
and he feels the weight of it all
crushing down on him,
pressing him deeper
into the chair
that’s become his cross
to bear.

he’s at the edge,
looking down into the abyss,
and for the first time,
he’s not sure if he has
the strength
to step back,
to keep fighting,
to keep believing
that any of this
matters.

the fire inside him flickers,
almost dies,
and he wonders,
just for a moment,
if maybe the smart thing to do
is to let it go out,
to embrace the dark,
to accept the inevitable
and let himself
become
what they want him to be.
Part 3: A Vision of the Future
he must have drifted,
just for a moment,
just long enough
for the world to slip away,
for the gray walls to melt
into something darker,
something colder,
a place where time stretches
like taffy,
where the minutes drip
like a slow leak
from a rusty pipe.

he’s standing in the office,
but it’s not the office,
not really.
the walls are taller,
the ceilings higher,
and everything is steel,
chrome,
gleaming under the harsh lights
that buzz like a hive
about to swarm.

he looks around,
but there are no faces,
no eyes to meet his,
just bodies moving in perfect rhythm,
like clockwork,
like gears turning
in a vast, impersonal machine.
they’re all the same,
all wearing the same gray suits,
the same blank expressions,
their fingers flying over keyboards
that hum with the pulse
of a world that’s forgotten
how to feel.

he tries to call out,
tries to shout a name,
but the words stick in his throat,
caught in the web
of this silent, soulless place,
and he realizes,
with a shudder,
that he’s one of them,
that he’s part of the machine,
his own hands moving
in the same mechanical dance,
his own face a mask
of numb compliance.

he looks down,
sees his hands covered in steel,
his fingers clicking and clacking
in perfect time,
no longer flesh,
no longer his,
just tools,
just parts
of something bigger,
something that swallows him whole,
leaving nothing behind
but the cold,
empty shell
of what he used to be.

the vision shifts,
and now he’s floating above it all,
looking down on the factory floor,
where the machines grind on,
day and night,
never stopping,
never resting,
just chewing up the hours,
the days,
the years,
until there’s nothing left
but dust and echoes.

he sees his colleagues—
Lena, her eyes dead and dull,
no more color in her world,
no more fire in her hands;
Tom, his mop a scepter
of a kingdom of dirt,
moving in circles
that never end;
Jade, her wit gone cold,
her fingers tapping out code
that no longer means anything,
just lines and lines
of empty commands
in a language she no longer understands.

and then he sees himself,
or what’s left of him,
a shadow,
a ghost
moving through the motions,
his soul long since bled out
into the machine,
a sacrifice on the altar
of progress,
of efficiency,
of compliance.

the vision twists again,
and now it’s different,
now there’s light,
warm and golden,
pouring through windows
that stretch to the sky.
the office is still there,
but it’s changed,
transformed,
alive with color and sound,
with laughter and conversation
that hums with life,
not with the cold, sterile hum
of machines.

he sees Lena,
her hands moving freely,
painting the walls
with her designs,
each stroke a burst of energy,
of creativity
that fills the space
with something real,
something human.

he sees Tom,
his mop abandoned,
his hands busy building,
creating something new
from the rubble of the old,
his face alight
with a quiet satisfaction
that comes from work
that means something.

and Jade—
Jade is laughing,
her eyes sharp,
her wit as quick as ever,
but now it’s not a weapon,
not a shield,
just a spark,
a flare of brilliance
that lights up the room,
that makes the system hum
with a different kind of energy,
one that pulses with life,
with possibility.

and Sam—
Sam is there too,
not just a cog,
not just a part of the machine,
but a man,
whole and real,
his hands free to move,
to create,
to shape the world
into something better,
something brighter.

the vision fades,
and he’s back in his chair,
back in the cold, gray office,
but something’s changed,
something’s shifted inside him.
he’s seen the future,
both the dark and the light,
and he knows now
what he’s fighting for,
what he has to do
to keep the flame alive,
to keep pushing back
against the machine
that wants to consume them all.

it’s not about winning,
not about tearing it all down
in one grand gesture,
but about those small victories,
those little sparks
that keep the darkness at bay,
that keep the machine
from swallowing them whole.

he feels the fire reignite,
feels it burn hotter,
brighter,
because now he knows—
he’s seen it,
felt it—
that the fight is worth it,
that even in the smallest acts
of rebellion,
of creativity,
of humanity,
there’s power,
there’s hope,
there’s a future
that’s worth fighting for,
no matter the odds.
V. Final Rebellion
Part 1: The Ultimate Act
they’ve been sitting on it,
this idea,
this spark that’s been smoldering
in the dark corners of their minds,
waiting for the right moment
to flare up,
to catch fire
and burn down the walls
they’ve been trapped behind.

Sam, Lena, Jade, Tom—
they’ve had enough,
seen enough,
felt the sting of the whip
one too many times,
and now it’s time
to push back,
to strike at the heart
of the beast
that’s been grinding them down,
one day at a time.

it’s Jade who says it first,
who puts the words out there,
sharp as the edge of a knife:
“we take them down,
we hit them where it hurts,
right in the guts
of their precious machine.”

Sam nods,
feels the old fire rise up
from the ashes of all the doubts,
all the fear that’s been
gnawing at his bones.
it’s now or never,
and they all know it,
feel it in the air
that’s thick with the tension
of something big,
something dangerous.

Lena’s been working on it too,
a campaign,
something slick,
something that’ll slip through
the cracks of their system
and spread like wildfire
before anyone knows
what hit them.
it’s got teeth,
sharp and bright,
a message that’ll cut deep,
that’ll make the gods
sit up and take notice.

Tom’s on board,
quiet and steady,
his hands ready to do
what needs doing,
because he’s seen the way
they’ve bled him dry,
seen the way they’ve
turned him into a ghost
in his own life,
and he’s ready to come back
to the land of the living,
even if it means
walking through fire.

they plan it out,
every detail,
every move,
like soldiers going into battle,
because that’s what this is—
a war,
a last stand
against the machine
that’s been chewing them up
and spitting them out
for too damn long.

Jade’s fingers dance
over the keys,
hacking into the mainframe,
digging deep into the guts
of the company,
pulling out files,
exposing the rot
that’s been festering
beneath the surface,
the corruption,
the lies,
the futility of it all,
laid bare for everyone to see.

Lena’s campaign is ready,
slick and deadly,
a viral bomb
set to go off
the moment they hit send,
spreading across screens
like a plague,
infecting the system
with the truth
they’ve been hiding from,
the truth that cuts
through the bullshit
and shows the world
what they’ve been
too afraid to see.

Tom’s got his part too,
the one who’ll make sure
everything runs smooth,
that the message gets out,
that the plan goes off
without a hitch,
because failure isn’t an option,
not now,
not when they’ve come this far,
not when they’re so close
to finally breaking free.

the tension’s thick,
electric,
as they move into position,
as they ready themselves
for the plunge,
knowing that if they fail,
it’s all over—
jobs gone,
reputations shot,
blacklisted,
pushed out into the cold
with nothing to show
but the ashes of a fight
that never even got started.

but they don’t back down,
don’t hesitate,
because they know
this is their only chance,
their last shot
at taking control
of something that’s been
out of their hands
for far too long.

they’re ready,
and when the moment comes,
when the clock ticks down
to zero,
they hit the button,
they pull the trigger,
they send it all out
into the world
and watch as the storm
begins to gather,
as the walls start to shake,
as the machine begins to groan
under the weight
of their final, grand act
of rebellion.
Part 2: Confrontation
the storm’s brewing,
you can feel it,
taste it in the air,
sharp like metal,
like blood in your mouth
after a fight,
and Sam knows
there’s no turning back now,
no crawling back
to the shadows,
not after what they’ve done,
not after they’ve pulled back
the curtain
and shown the world
the ugly, pulsing heart
of the machine.

he’s standing there,
right in the middle of it,
his hands still warm
from the trigger they pulled,
from the shot they fired
that’s ricocheting
through the walls,
through the floors,
up to the very top
where the gods sit
on their thrones of paper
and steel.

Mr. Progress is waiting,
his smile thin,
sharp as a blade,
the kind of smile
that cuts you
before you even feel the pain.
he’s the king here,
the top dog,
and he knows it,
wears it like armor
as he stares Sam down,
like he’s just another insect
to be crushed
under his shiny black shoe.

“what do you think you’ve done?”
Mr. Progress spits,
his voice low,
dangerous,
like the growl of a wolf
before it lunges.
“you think you can bring this down,
bring me down,
with a few lines of code,
a few clever tricks?
you’re nothing, Sam,
nothing but a cog
in the machine,
a piece we can replace
with a snap of our fingers.”

Sam stands his ground,
his heart pounding
like a drum in his chest,
but his voice is steady,
stronger than he thought it’d be
when he looks Mr. Progress
in the eye,
sees the fear
hiding behind that smile,
the cracks starting to show
in the armor,
in the perfect facade
he’s built around himself.

“you’re wrong,”
Sam says,
and it’s like the words
are coming from somewhere deep,
somewhere old and angry
and tired of being pushed down,
pushed aside,
pushed into the dirt
just because they could.
“we’re not just cogs,
we’re not just numbers,
and you’re not untouchable,
not anymore.”

he throws the files down,
the proof of it all,
the corruption,
the lies,
the way they’ve squeezed
the life out of everything
and everyone,
the way they’ve built
this tower on the bones
of people who just wanted
a chance to breathe,
to live without feeling
like the air itself
was choking them.

Mr. Progress sneers,
but there’s a flicker,
just a flicker
of something else—
doubt,
maybe even fear,
because Sam’s not backing down,
not this time,
not when he’s got the truth
like a weapon
burning in his hands.

“you think anyone cares?”
Mr. Progress barks,
but the edge in his voice
isn’t as sharp as it was,
and Sam knows he’s hit something,
something raw,
something the king
didn’t want anyone to see.
“you think the board,
the shareholders,
give a damn about your little crusade?
we own this,
we own everything,
and you’re just a speck,
a stain we’ll wipe clean
before anyone even notices.”

but Sam’s not alone,
not anymore,
and he feels the presence
of Lena,
Jade,
Tom,
and all the others,
the ones who’ve been crushed,
been pushed down,
been told they’re nothing,
and he knows
this isn’t just about him,
this isn’t just his fight.

“it’s over,”
Sam says,
and he can see it now,
the truth of it,
the way the walls are shaking,
the way the tower is trembling
as the storm hits,
as the truth spreads
like wildfire through the ranks,
through the streets,
through the very foundation
they’ve built this empire on.

“you’re finished,”
he says,
and Mr. Progress flinches,
just a little,
just enough to let Sam know
he’s right,
that the king’s throne
is teetering,
that the empire’s cracking
under the weight
of its own greed,
its own lies.

the room’s electric,
the tension thick,
like the air before a lightning strike,
and for a moment,
everything’s balanced on a knife’s edge,
the outcome hanging there,
uncertain,
unwritten.

but Sam’s not afraid,
not anymore,
because he’s done with fear,
done with bending
under the weight of it all,
and he’s ready to see this through,
to take whatever comes
because he knows,
deep down,
that this fight—
their fight—
isn’t just a flicker,
isn’t just a flash in the pan.
it’s a fire,
a blaze that’s catching,
spreading,
burning through the dark,
and he’s ready to watch it
burn.
Part 3: The Aftermath
and then it’s done,
the hammer’s fallen,
the smoke’s still hanging in the air
like a ghost of what was,
what might have been,
and the company—
this place that held them all
in its iron grip—
is crumbling,
the cracks too wide
to patch,
too deep to ignore.

the emails fly,
the phones ring off the hook,
panic spreading like wildfire
through the halls,
and you can see it in their faces,
the fear,
the confusion,
the ones who thought
they were untouchable
now looking around
like the ground’s been ripped out
from under their feet.

Mr. Progress is gone,
resigned in disgrace,
or so they say,
though some whisper
he was pushed,
that the board finally got wise
to the rot he was feeding them,
and now he’s just another name
on a door that doesn’t matter,
another ghost
haunting the halls of power
he used to own.

Ms. Efficiency,
she’s been cut too,
her numbers no longer adding up
to anything they want to see,
her cold calculations
falling short
of the new bottom line—
people,
not profit,
or so they say,
or so they want you to believe.

and Mr. Compliance,
he’s still there,
but the rules are changing,
shifting like sand
under his feet,
and he’s scrambling to keep up,
to keep his grip
on the old ways,
but it’s slipping,
slipping away
like water through a sieve,
like the power he thought
he’d hold forever.

the company’s in chaos,
the structure collapsing
like a house of cards,
one breath away
from toppling completely,
and yet,
there’s something new
in the air,
a whisper of change,
of something different,
something that might
just be better.

the meetings now,
they talk about values,
about people first,
about making things right,
and maybe,
just maybe,
it’s not all bullshit,
not all lip service
to keep the wolves at bay.

Sam walks through the office,
feels the difference,
the way the air isn’t quite
so heavy,
the way the eyes
that meet his
aren’t so dead,
so lost,
so beaten down
by the grind.

there’s talk of a new start,
a more humane place,
where creativity isn’t crushed,
where individuality isn’t stamped out,
where the work matters,
where the people matter,
but Sam knows better
than to trust it completely,
knows that this beast
they’ve been fighting
doesn’t die easy,
that it’s just been wounded,
not killed.

and maybe that’s enough,
for now,
this small victory,
this moment of light
in a place that’s been
dark for too long,
but he can’t shake the feeling
that it’s not over,
that the cycle’s just turning,
spinning back around
to where it started,
where it always seems to end.

the new bosses,
they’re saying the right things,
but Sam’s seen enough,
felt the cold hand
of the machine on his neck
for too long
to believe it’ll all just
go away,
just like that.

so he keeps his eyes open,
his guard up,
because he knows
there’s always another fight,
always another battle
waiting in the wings,
and though they’ve won this one,
the war’s still raging,
still out there,
in the halls,
in the offices,
in the hearts of everyone
who’s ever felt the grind,
the weight,
the endless push
to be more,
to give more,
to lose more
until there’s nothing left.

the victory’s theirs,
for now,
but Sam knows
the future’s still uncertain,
still murky,
still wrapped in the same shadows
that have always lingered
just out of sight,
and he knows
the fight’s not over,
not yet,
not ever.

but as he steps outside,
into the cool, clean air,
he feels the weight lift,
just a little,
just enough to remind him
why he fought,
why they all fought,
and though the road ahead
is still long,
still winding,
he knows they’ll keep walking,
keep pushing,
because that’s what you do
when the machine tries
to grind you down—
you push back,
and you keep pushing,
until you’ve carved out
something that’s yours,
something that’s real,
something that’ll last
until the next storm comes,
and you start all over again.
VI. Legacy
Part 1: Sam’s Reflection
now that the dust has settled,
now that the smoke has cleared
and the echoes of the battle
are fading into the hum of daily life,
Sam stands at the edge of it all,
looks back at the path he’s walked,
the scars he’s earned,
the blood he’s spilled
on the altar of this fight
that never seems to end.

he knows,
deep down,
that some of it was futile,
that pushing against the tide
is like trying to hold back the ocean
with your bare hands,
that no matter how hard you fight,
there’s always more waves,
more storms,
more darkness
waiting just beyond the horizon.

but still,
he can’t shake the feeling
that it was worth it,
that standing up,
even when you know
you’re going to get knocked down,
even when you know
the odds are stacked
like a rigged deck
against you,
is the only thing
that keeps the world
from sinking into the muck,
from drowning in its own apathy.

he thinks about Lena,
how her eyes have a spark again,
how she’s finding her color,
her fire,
in a world that tried so hard
to paint her gray.
he thinks about Jade,
and the way she laughs now,
a real laugh,
not just a sharp bark
to keep the wolves at bay,
but something that comes
from deep inside,
from a place that remembers
what it feels like
to be free.

he thinks about Tom,
how the lines on his face
seem a little less deep,
how his shoulders
don’t slump so much
under the weight
of all the shit
they’ve piled on him
over the years.
and he thinks about himself,
how he’s changed,
how the fight has carved him,
shaped him into something
tougher,
but also something
more fragile,
like a blade that’s been hammered
too many times,
thin and sharp,
but one wrong move
and it’ll snap.

he knows the struggle’s not over,
not by a long shot,
that the machine
is still out there,
still grinding,
still hungry
for more of what makes them human,
still waiting to pull them all back in,
to chew them up
and spit them out
like it’s always done.

but he also knows
that they’ve made a dent,
a crack in the armor,
and maybe that’s all they can do,
all anyone can do
in a world like this—
keep chipping away
at the edges,
keep pushing against the grind,
keep standing up
even when it feels like
you’re the last one left
holding the line.

there’s a bittersweet taste
in his mouth,
like the aftertaste
of a victory
that’s not quite as sweet
as you thought it’d be,
but it’s there,
and it’s real,
and it’s something
he can carry with him
into whatever comes next.

he knows the fight will go on,
that there will always be another battle,
another hill to climb,
another mountain to move,
but he also knows
that he’s not alone,
that they’re all in this together,
and that maybe,
just maybe,
that’s enough
to keep the fire burning,
to keep the darkness
at bay
for just a little while longer.

and as he turns to face
whatever comes next,
he feels a weight lift
from his shoulders,
feels the burden
of all that’s come before
fall away
like a heavy coat
he no longer needs to wear.

because he’s still here,
still standing,
and in a world like this,
that’s something,
that’s everything,
and it’s enough.
Part 2: Ongoing Story
Sam’s story isn’t just his own,
it’s the story of every man,
every woman
who’s ever felt the grind,
who’s ever stared down
the barrel of a Monday morning
and wondered
what the hell they’re doing it for,
who’s ever felt the weight
of the clock,
the deadline,
the endless march
of days that blur together
like a film reel stuck on repeat.

it’s the story of the ones
who punch the clock
and feel the sting of the chains,
who fight to keep
just a piece of themselves
from being swallowed whole
by the machine
that never stops,
never slows,
just keeps on chewing,
keeps on grinding,
keeps on feeding on the lives
of those who give everything
and get so damn little
in return.

there’s a thousand Sams out there,
a million,
each one with their own story,
their own scars,
their own small rebellions
that light up the dark
in ways the big shots
up top
will never understand,
never even notice,
because they’re too busy
counting their money,
too busy building their empires
on the backs of the ones
who make it all run.

and the thing is,
the fight’s never over,
not really.
it’s there,
in the quiet corners
of every office,
in the tired eyes
of every worker
who’s ever thought
there’s got to be more
than this,
who’s ever dreamed
of breaking free,
of tearing it all down
and building something better,
something that’s theirs.

but the world doesn’t change
overnight,
and sometimes the victories
are so small,
so fleeting,
you wonder if they were ever there
at all.
but they are,
and they matter,
because every time someone stands up,
every time someone says
“no, not today,”
it’s a crack in the wall,
a chip in the armor,
a spark that might just catch
if the wind blows right.

Sam knows it,
and so do the rest,
that the struggle’s the same,
whether you’re in a cubicle
or on the factory floor,
whether you’re coding lines of data
or stacking shelves
in some big box store—
it’s the same damn fight
for a piece of dignity,
for a shred of respect
in a world that’d rather
see you as a number,
a statistic,
a name on a list
that no one bothers to read.

so here’s to the ones
who keep pushing,
who keep fighting
even when the odds
are stacked so high
you can’t see the sky,
even when it feels like
you’re the only one
who gives a damn,
because those are the ones
who make the world move,
who keep the wheels turning
in the right direction,
even if it’s just an inch
at a time.

and maybe,
just maybe,
that’s enough—
not to win the war,
but to keep the fire burning,
to keep the night at bay
for another day,
another hour,
another breath.

because in the end,
it’s the small victories that matter,
the quiet moments of defiance
that say,
“we’re still here,
we’re still fighting,
and we won’t go quietly
into that good night.”
and that’s something
worth holding on to,
something worth fighting for,
no matter the cost,
no matter the outcome.

so here’s to Sam,
and here’s to you,
to all of us
caught in the gears
of a world that grinds us down
but can’t quite break us,
not yet,
not ever.

because the fight goes on,
and so do we,
each of us a spark
in the darkness,
each of us a voice
in the silence,
saying,
“this is our story,
this is our fight,
and we’ll keep pushing
until the very end.”