The labor appears endless
The idea of finishing impossible
The mind fills with what must be done
The first reaction is to run away

Yet the hands start to labor
Hours pass, and task after task falls away
Blisters form, and muscles ache
But the end begins to be in sight

Labor is good for the soul
Beauty is discovered, buried under rubble
Labor exposes that beauty
If love does anything, love works

The day ends, labor is finished
Clothing peeling off for the shower
White under socks, showing the thick layer of dirt
Showing, it feels good to be clean again

Sleep is sweet
Tomorrow, back to work

This entry was posted in Poetry.

One comment on “work

  1. Lucias Ray says:

    As I get older the more I realize that this is true, and so fear doing work less.

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