fowl nest

[Truerenigma]

Edit 1

Cooped in a cubicle, surrounded
by peckers busily bobbing
at the daily scraps and bytes.
Their beady backlit eyes
downcast. Myopic.
The squawkers cluck
through twisted wires.
Their cawing chorus
a great commercial cacophony.
Messageless. Meaningless.
The plucked and preened
plume their windsor-knotted wattles
and parade their wing tips,
crowing cockily of golden eggs
laid for the chief farming officer's audit.
Poor fools don't realise
we're all broilers here.
I too squawk and nibble
but am ever watchful of the latch,
just a flick and a flap to freedom.
Poor fool, oblivious of wings
imperceptibly pinioned
in a flightless room.



Original

I, caged and cooped
among the peckers
busily bobbing
for scraps and bytes

cluckers squawking
through twisted wires
muddling meanings
a screeching cacophony

plucked and preened
parading plumage
cockily crowing
of golden eggs,

nibbling scraps
watching my latch
a flick from freedom
oblivious of wings

imperceptibly pinioned


Rip me apart please folks

I'm afraid this reads as just another adolescent's ennui in their first blush of gainful employment. It is the old "cog-in-the-wheel-we-are
ground-down by the machine
of meaninglessness" dystopia with a farm instead of a machine. Orwell did it better without all of the alliterative nonsense. There is not much here that I find interesting. You would do better to lose the nonsense, and just write of the farm, the metaphor by itself, leaving the office to the reader—and out of the poem.