Kafka's Ire

In the labyrinth of steel and glass,
Where shadows stretch and whispers pass,
I wander, lost, a ghost unseen,
A stranger in the machine.

The streets are veins, the city breathes,
Yet in its pulse, my soul bereaves.
Each face a mask, each word a code,
A language never learned, nor showed.

The clockwork hums, the cogs align,
But where, oh where, is a place that’s mine?
I grasp at rules, they slip like sand,
A foreigner in my own land.

The office towers, cold and tall,
Echo with names I cannot call.
Papers shuffle, screens glow bright,
Yet nothing feels inherently right.

I dream of doors that never open,
Of paths untrod, of words unspoken.
The more I seek, the less I find,
A labyrinth of the modern mind.

Kafka’s ghost, it whispers near,
Of endless trials, of endless fear.
A beetle crushed beneath the wheel,
A fate I struggle to unfeel.

Oh, to break free, to find the key,
To carve a space where I can be.
But every turn, a mirrored wall,
Reflects a self I can’t recall.

So here I stand, in Kafka’s ire,
A spark consumed by others’ fire.
Lost in the maze, I yearn, I tire,
A soul adrift, a fading pyre.