04-12-2016, 05:36 AM
Hands gravelly, stained, fragments of Earth
encrusted in every divot, under fingernails
unclipped, ungroomed lifetimes of digging wells
form callouses which ease the burden,
scars that teach and tell tales of serfs
pride. Hardening the shell
to no surprise softens the fell
for it is every mans job to die.
I am not of this cruel, cold Earth
it seems unwilling every job I fail
miserably. I am tired of this concrete hell
in which I must dig into dirt to plant a seed,
I want to sing, no longer serve
this pagan worship of shale
grinding and mud slinging ails
me. The lost son can only look to see.
encrusted in every divot, under fingernails
unclipped, ungroomed lifetimes of digging wells
form callouses which ease the burden,
scars that teach and tell tales of serfs
pride. Hardening the shell
to no surprise softens the fell
for it is every mans job to die.
I am not of this cruel, cold Earth
it seems unwilling every job I fail
miserably. I am tired of this concrete hell
in which I must dig into dirt to plant a seed,
I want to sing, no longer serve
this pagan worship of shale
grinding and mud slinging ails
me. The lost son can only look to see.
Crit away