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WORK

Most weeks it seems as if the time
has faded off into a grey
that seeps into the duller minds
of all who wake into the day.

The pattern flows,
the sun lifts up
and brings us all the rising light

with all the good,
with all the bad,
with all the torment just in sight.

So trudging there acoss the land
with minds so full of youthful hope,
in molded metal or on sand,
along the concrete's lengthy scope

to seize the day,
to bridge the gap,
that stretches out from home, then back.

To teach the young,
to praise the old,
to keep a wounded mind intact.

Then work begins and minds do melt
into a massive, soundless sea
and people sit there at their desks
and think "Why won't it search for me?"

The thrill of love,
the thrill of hope,
the wondrous power of adventure,

to bring me back,
to bring me life,
to fill this dull life to the measure.

And home they go to wait and sit
and stare at squares that live, yet don't,
and crawl into their beds to pray
the future shines yet truly won't.

The pattern flows,
the pattern streams,
from birth 'til ones last words are uttered

and people sit,
and people groan,
and breathless words of hate are muttered.

And all for work.

Learn more about this author, Mooky.
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