Eternal Labor – A Poem

Upon the cloudy skies of Yourn

I fail to beset my inner troubles

Ones’ man bears me

Through his actions, his motives

Of man

Lord,

He cuts me, I bleed water, sugar

After which he mills me

Cleanses me, eats me

And all I can do is sway

Sway,

Sway to the author’s delight, to the painter’s vision

To the farmers wallet, to the child’s stomach

And for all their needs and hankers

I’m counted upon to sway there

Falter in the breeze for my writers

Fantasize for my romanticist

Fall to my sowers scythe

Feed the bowels of my child

In silence of my field’s crows

And You do nothing,

In Your ever muteness

So I just sway

Sway to the man, woman, child

And You, Lord

You, my Creator

I fail to resist You

Any defiance extinguished

As I look upon Your skies

In my continuum

I never cease to exist

Nor do You

Nor does my labor, though

Which You never bring to an end

And perhaps You could.

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