The taste of mortality
gathers on the brow
with the dust and dirt
forming a salty stream
that burns the eyes
and teases the tongue
with its wet bitterness.
The wear and tear of life
is etched on hands
bruised and battered
showing open scars
made not in a day
but over hard years
of unrelenting toil.
What cannot be seen
is the broken dreams,
the beaten down spirit
that no longer can rise
to work another day
yet knows it must
though the will is no more.
It is a life unknown
to the soft handed,
the white shirted ones
who sit and earn,
making what is not seen
nor touched but only
exists between nine and five.
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