Day Two


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

stepped on.

I miss you,



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