The Worker

The Worker

I see myself in the mirror and,

etched on my face are the years gone by.

The wrinkles carved on my forehead;

The touches of gray in my beard;

My youthful glow, indeed fading;

They say with the gray comes wisdom,

but I just see reminders that I’ve lived through another day, another year, and so many haven’t.

To be born into a world of plenty and be forced to watch it all go away;

Oh the dreams we cast away in order to survive, trapped in the realities of our lives.

Indeed fleeting

We mustn’t complain,

We must keep working

We MUST keep going

Even when we have no reserves

Even when we need to mourn what life could have been

It’s time to clock back in.