He awakens in dirt and sand
and rises, flinching, to suffer.
His days are spent in toil
and his future is destined
to be just as grim and unforgiving
as the landscapes of his moods.
As ****** and callused
as the workman's knuckles
of his hands.
He spends most of his time absent,
his boy growing while he labors.
He wishes it was different
but knows his place.
Some men build pyramids
others just push the stones.
There are worse things to be
than a man pushing the stones,
he wants to believe.
He trys to remember that most
of the time he's happy.
He thinks he is.
Hopes.
It seems like mostly he's frustrated
but really he's just sad.
Tired and sad. Not hopeless,
not exactly,
but aware that there is no hope here.
Lightning crosses like sword blades
on the distant horizon
and he feels empty
when he sees it happen
because all of sudden it
matters that he was alone.
His life has been filled with moments,
experiences that he's always treasured
but now he sees them for true.
They, like his life,
happened to only him.
At night he curls on his stomach
and falls fast and dreamless asleep,
he is always tired.
And although he knows it won't
solve anything
(why would it?)
he finds a small measure of comfort
in the fact that
if we're all fading
into nothing, anyway
at least it's all happening
under the same indifferent stars.