Toil for Sunshine
Poetry for those struggling through financial hard times
Blessed is he
who enters the world of wrath.
The meek slave lives,
Like the old grey donkey pulling a cart.
Are we free, I ask? Any more than he?
With tortured broken hearts
The poor carry canes to assist them in their old age,
still willing to breath.
Aprons wrap us instead of feathers.
Leaves tremble in the wind around us.
My pain is my ball and chain
my club of frenzy.
Oh, the souls who cannot see
the good in me that shall be
forever painted on tattered boards.
I am just a horse
for the rich man’s carriage.
Am I not more than a mere mop and a broom?
More than a forehead of sweat and labor?
A slow hand strokes the skin of my brow.
It cannot shed the hurt within my gut,
My longing for a passionate rush.
Behold our day of toil.
Endure it and stifle your lusts.
Polish out your own will.
Dust off your dreams.
Carry the heavy load for the weak.
Because there is a place of sunshine,
fresh water for those of character.
Rest for the weary is near.
I have seen a small slice of heaven
And it is beautiful there in the end.
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