Calloused hands on a rock face,
dark and dirty, cold and oh so oppressed.
Surounded by noise,
machines and people.
Harmonious voices, a common goal.
Backbreaking and unenvied,
drilling with skill,
working together they pushed forwards,
filling sacks of cloth for the world above to casually throw on fires.
For the generation of light, sound and motion.
They continued, no sense of time or reality,
all focussed on earnings.
Not just those papery enchanges for good and services,
but so much more.
Raising families, maintaining a community, regulating an unnatural ecosystem
of houses, roads and communications.
A metaphor for a relationship?
We work and struggle, we toil without question.
Supposing once in a while, stopping to look around at the fruits of our labour?
Who dares to say if it should be easy,
that we should equate love and passion, desire and a considered future with say what?
A desk job?
Probably not, it seems incongruous to imagine that something so meaningful can be so trivial.
I want to feel like what we create leaves me with a harder edge, not sat on a cushioned chair.
Looking at the hands, I wonder.
Looking at my fragile heart I know.
The scars, the pain, the sense of being used to fear are all within,
a shell reinforced to repel emotional bullets etched with my name.
Yet my hands are still ever so soft.
Steve B 09/09
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