Working Mans Fate.

The sleepless wake, their hands and feet ache
As people everywhere repeat their fate
They drag their bodies on the floor
Food drops to their core like a boar eating beef off a door
Their faces are brushes scraping wax off rocks
Their hair are pressed as water flows down their necks
Their bodies are then dried like raisins under sunny skies
Their clothes are then put on like a swan wetting their feathers at dawn
Fragrances are then spawned, shoes are slipped on.
The skies have switched from night time to sunny pitched
Doors slam, and bang as the people scurry in a hurry
To avoid a scrum of traffic and sun
As I sit on the wall, eating a bun with crumbs that fall
I realize such a fate would make me bait to utter stress and hate.

by Shayn Hacker

Other poems of HACKER (9)

Comments (1)

it simply touched my heart...i am overwhelmed