En Tombant
I stand as a man,hurled into a paradise honored by a thin blue line which divided me from my coercer.
Me from them, them from us.
I take my handkerchief from my pocket to wipe away the blood, sweat and tears of my labor, pondering, wishing I could cleanse myself this pain, hate, and fear.
I stand over these rippling meadows and draw in a tranquil wind, and feel the scorching sun bead upon me and gaze upon God's fortune. I stand opposed to my browbeater, I then realized my cool wind has gone ill as I absorb the scalding gaze he presents hot enough to leave the Dead Sea nothing more then a desolate salt mound.
I continue to wipe the perspiration away,
the sweat trickles down my brow searing my once bright eyes.
I finish my last wipe and jostle my handkerchief back into my pocket, I pick up my shovel as I recoil back into this reality.
I put my tool to the ground and strike the earth,
one, two, three, four,
one, two, three, four.
I toil away in this field, as we drop one by one,
one, two, three, four,
one, two, three, four.
My dearest friend visited my brother last month,
why won't he visit me?
My overseer has the money to burn, while I'm left to burn the midnight oil.
I strike the ground further,
one, two, three, four.
I pause, a smirk comes over me as the sweat continued to bead down my parched skin.
My shovel, now stopped, I raise my head once more as a smirk creeps across my face,
I know for once in my often jaded life, through all of my bloodshed, and anguish, and tears, and years, and rain, I know, without a doubt, that much like the currents of an embankment,
rocks deteriorate over the years, I surpassed those who now lie disgraced..
I will carry my shovel, my shovel will not carry me.
I take the handkerchief out once more to wipe my brow and quickly return it to my pocket,
I glare at the field once more, then I return to my happy drudgeries
when my shovel hits the earth,
one, two, three, four,
one, two, three, four.
Poetry by wolfthepoet
Read 863 times
Written on 2006-07-05 at 03:55
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