The Workshop - On the vulnerability of sharing unfinished art
<>>The Unseen Clock
This is not the struggle of a single, glorious fight,
Not a dragon to be slain upon a cliff at night.
This is the struggle of the gutters, slow and deep,
Where promises and paychecks are a bargain you must keep.
It’s the alarm clock’s verdict, a sentence you can’t pleacenterThe 9-to-5, the 9-to-7, the 24/7 plea.
It’s the bus that sighs and shudders, breathing metallic breath,
A chariot for the weary, on a road that smells of death
By a thousand paper cuts, by a million silent screams,
And the flickering of office lights on forgotten, tired dreams.
It’s the everyday people, with their everyday scars,
Pushing carts through supermarkets, polishing the bars,
Fixing someone else's engine, staring at a screen of code,
Carrying the unseeable, but ever-present load.
It’s the gutters of the spirit, where ambition goes to drain,
In the gentle, constant drizzle of the monotonous rain.
It’s the coffee cup that trembles in a hand that’s going numb,
The calculation of the days until the weekend will have come.
It’s the struggle in the shoulders, in the small of the back,
The fear that if you stop, you’ll never get the rhythm back.
But in the gutters, look again, a different kind of fire,
The stubborn will to build a life, is all the soul’s desire.
The courage in the lunch pail, the love packed neat inside,
The second wind you catch for kids who run to you, eyes wide.
This is the daily battle, fought with time and weary bones,
On the factory floors, the call centers, the telephones.
A war waged for the simple things, a roof, a meal, a song,
The struggle makes the everyday people mighty, proud, and strong.
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