Filing

Feeling the weight of endless dull forms
Tucked in folders stacked waiting to transform
Into neat alphanumeric array
Easy to find and information convey
Giving meaning to mountains of details
Slowly burying me without coffin or nails
Relevance is dead only order is left
With no meaning filing leaves me bereft
So A becomes Z and 8-A is 3-C
Since meaningless order seems so bourgeoisie
Until tomorrow guilt comes and obsession retakes
Rectifying all today’s glorious mistakes
More piles of folders and infinite forms
How long would they burn to keep someone warm