Monday, May 2, 2011

"Enervating Sigh"

The wide eyed dog at the end of the table

The hand in the fingerless glove on the side of the road

The glass eyes of a caring heart

Can’t complain when all you’ve got is scraps

The shame of the pariah, the taste of guilt

Stones cast into the sky as I remain still

The hand grips the pickaxe and swings once more at the ground

There’s almost no reward for what I do but that doesn’t stop me

So don’t short change me for what you don’t see

The ghost of persecution haunts us all

And I am somebody, worth my weight in gold

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