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Jeremy Troutman Poem
In the shadowed alcove of memory, Where forgotten dreams curl like smoke, I wander, a spectral seeker, Tracing the edges of existence.
The moon, a pale witness, Hangs low, its silver gaze unyielding, As if it knows the secrets etched Into the marrow of my bones.
Copyright © Jeremy Troutman | Year Posted 2024
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Jeremy Troutman Poem
I've toiled in shadows, my hands calloused and worn,
Laboring silently, my spirit tattered and torn.
For the promise of pennies, I've bent my back low,
While the masters of plenty reap what I sow.
They say, "Be content, for your cup overflows,"
But I see the dregs, the remnants they dispose.
The sweat on my brow, the ache in my bones,
Is this the reward for the seeds I have sown?
The factory hums, its gears grinding my soul,
As I stitch together dreams, thread by thread, whole.
The clock's relentless march, the assembly line's song,
Each tick a reminder: my worth is a pawn.
They preach gratitude, as if crumbs are a feast,
While they dine on opulence, their greed never ceased.
My saucer is chipped, its edges frayed thin,
And I wonder, is this all life has ever been?
Bare minimum sustenance, like scraps to a dog,
While they build castles high, their fortunes agog.
The fruits of my labor, a bitter aftertaste,
As they sip from golden goblets, their wealth interlaced.
I've glimpsed the dark clouds, felt despair's icy grip,
When hope waned thin, and my dreams began to slip.
Yet still, they demand more, my sweat and my blood,
As if my sacrifice alone can fill their coffers' flood.
So here's my counter argument, etched in defiance:
To settle for less is to silence resilience.
My cup may overflow, but it's time to demand,
Not just scraps from the table, but justice, firm and grand.
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Remember, dear friend, that your worth is immeasurable, and your labor deserves more than mere crumbs.
Copyright © Jeremy Troutman | Year Posted 2024
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Jeremy Troutman Poem
Because I could not escape from Life –
It rudely dragged me forth –
The chaos swirled, consuming all –
And Oblivion, my worth.
We raced through days – no time to rest –
And I, a frantic pawn –
My dreams and hopes, discarded, lost –
For Life's relentless dawn.
We passed the cubicles, where souls toiled
In fluorescent-lit despair –
We passed the screens of endless tasks –
We passed the coffee-stained chair.
Or rather – Life passed me –
Its deadlines, like a storm –
For only memos, spreadsheets, strife –
My soul, a uniform.
We paused before a desk that seemed
A prison of the mind –
The keyboard barely visible –
The mouse, a chain that binds.
Since then – 'tis eons – and yet
Feels shorter than a breath –
I first surmised the ticking clock
Led me toward my death.
Copyright © Jeremy Troutman | Year Posted 2024
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