3rd Hour

Cold and wet  in the mourning rain
Desiring freedom though restricted;
Old sailors that used to be,
Long since have died.
Work, work,
Break the stones of
Monotony of building a new world.
 
Crack the gravel,
Shift the dirt,
Cart the steel,
Place the bricks.
There's nothing more,
Just endlessly pacing, bodily placing,
Adding to a changing world.
 
New forms for old delivers.
A man and a woman
Old and with children
Add to the oak from the gran-fathers' day.
Sitting, waiting,
Drinking old wine and watching the clouds
Whilst waiting for a greater world.
 
Freedom is here yet not what they want;
Everybody wants more.
Committed to the old,
None can reach out and sacrifice,
Embittered, enchained by the group,
Cynics and fighters are grounded
By vain society's world.
 
Going home at the end of the day,
Still raining, still in pain,
Head to the barn
Where home is born.
There's naught like a cold drink
In an old room
To feel the breaking of the world.
 
Do  you need a distraction from the emptiness within?
Emptiness waking on a fruitful morning repeating dreary rain…
It's not as if a comfortable bed
Exists to take the work away
In the warm company of memory
On a bench in a park
In the world of what hasn't been.
 
Repetition of labor
Sinking stones in a mountain of gravel.
Glassy beach of steel memory
Recalling
Red lines.
Should have worn a hard hat today
In light of the world that is.
 
Dreary. Closer.
Stormy. Closer.
Boring. Closer.
Old. Closer.
Changing. Closer.
Light. Closer.
Pain. CLOSER.
OH GOD, I DON'T WANT TO DIE.
Dark.
Still alive?
Opening eyes to a sparkling new world…


ISA