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Toil for Sunshine

Updated on July 11, 2013

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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