The Worker and the Maker
A nail in his thigh, yet onward he goes,
Through fires of labor where no mercy flows.
The crown meant to pierce now hardens to shield,
The pain that once struck becomes what he wields.
The Maker still whispers, “Endure and create,”
While time and the paycheck decide his fate.
He toils through the sparks, through the smoke and the grime,
A martyr of metal, a slave to the time.
Each rusted command, each unspoken demand,
Is forged in his soul by an unseen hand.
Yet out of the ache, the burn, and the bruise,
He shapes a tomorrow he’ll never use.
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