I remember when work was hard, and the sun struck us dramatically
As our feet slid up and down the colored mats
That smelt of the many emotions we expel silently from our
Heavy hearts. We would look out the clear glass window and see
The groups of kids with their hair long over their faces,
Their pants long past their waists, and their
Minds long past the realms of reality,
Trees in the woods but outcasts in a desert,
Of course this goes without saying,
Like the moon that boils our oceans and like the
Sun illuminating the dark.

Work always began with a light hearted sigh and a smile,
But ended the same way,
We love what we do and are grateful for the opportunity;
But evil voices still whisper into my trembling ears
Stories of journeys into the woods
Where sticky-green trees fulfill the unspoken
Desires of my suppressed demons,
Reminding me what I have given, like a backwards confession,
Then spitting it back at me, like the men who gargle
Their ailments in the back of their throat and
Spit it at the earth,
Indifferent to the look of disgust hiding meekly behind the soft eyes of passing kids.
They are scared revolutionaries, these kids,
Soft-spoken preachers of harsh words and brutal acts,
Behind the withered backs of us who worked when work was hard.

Imagine the sound of hard knuckles on harder wood,
It is not an image which need disturb the tranquil waters of imagination,
Oh, but do not cringe in mock pain as my words attack your eyes like guerrillas in warfare,
They will be gone soon; in fact, they have already left.
But do not feel relief, no, do not even smile at the thought that
I, no we, are completely gone.
Lift your head from underneath your arms and look at the
Shells we have left behind,
Now look past those glistening encasements at what was encased.
Devastating, is it not?
Don’t look away now, you have already seen it, you have already been
Scarred, now you must look at the people you loved the most,
I say loved because they are dead now, or should be anyway
If my soldiers are the straight-shots I have molded them to be.
Bullets are as infinite as the years of life,
Therefore what are the chances that very many survived
This short, but deep attack?
I can only hope that you did not just take with you the beautifully welded shells
And run to safety, leaving the dead to go forgotten in your haste,
Or fright, which ever it was that compelled you so to selfishly seek
Comfort in a place without soldiers
Whose bullets blast through the minds of young and old.
Instead stay with those whose bodies lie limp, and grieve,
Do not merely let them die alone, never to be heard of again,
For a change of mind is a change of heart,
And people never forget those whose hearts have stopped.

Now spew this knowledge like water being rejected from your mouth
And kill others with your bullets, while grieving for those you will
Lose along the way. Preparation is only an obstacle that must be dodged and cheated
Like death, you don’t know life not yours nor mine.
If you would rather listen to words molded by wrinkled mouths,
Or maybe not be bludgeoned by belief
Then heed not this warning because
Some things never change,
Never change in a hard days work.

I’ve seen the world’s drunken actors behind the dark curtain,
Heaving dust from their toothless mouths,
Words aboard the boats of truth with nowhere to go
But center stage where the actors will stride proudly,
Faces anew, wiped clean of filth from the unkempt
Space behind the curtain.
They perform, then retreat backstage and heave the
Shards of earth which they breathe through the air
Until a sea of red swallows them whole and
Fades back into the darkness,
Waiting for the sun to rise the next day
So that it can eat again.
The greedy tummies of Heaven and Hell
Fat with the daily-departed who have yet to forget when work was hard.