If my life was a plate, work would be a piece of steak,
Cutting it slow, far from tender.
Covered in papers, sheets and tides of papers,
inside building, shaping –
creating, breathing life to scribbles and lines and words.
Steps reverbrate against the solid columns of walking legs,
Pieces of tree bleed hard-cover the tender soles of working men,
Feet tired out of coal, far from stopping –
Bent with fuel and impunity
to step on feelings,
that need to be
I miss you,