The bench and the wayfarer

It was about three in afternoon,
as sun burnt the ground.
The smell of roast earth,
oozing in the atmosphere...

Dried leaves surround edges,
of the path way I strolled on
And above, tendrils and green foliage-
hang onto branches for their dear lives.

I was swamped by my cubical work,
so I went out for a smoke and a breath of air.
The irony of this amused me but my lungs,
selfish as I've made them wanted it all...

So I laid my newspapers on the lone bench,
lit my intoxicant, lay my hand over head,
and made peace with my body and mind.
then without chain, I walked back to my slave chamber.