Fire-Drenched Gold
Marching wearily through this callus-filled day,
Stumbling through failure in search of meaning,
I pause beside fallen timbers with saturated dreams,
And mourn the shared weight of these desolate days.
Routine chores anchor fears once carried,
With blistered hands and straining back
The work becomes a golden refuge
Stirring warmth within these onyx thoughts,
Lifting the spirit from oppressive confines
Of crushing days and vanished dreams.
Mother Earth warms my aching feet
While Father Sun brushes softly against my cheek,
Reminding me softly of hopeful truths
That hidden doors may someday appear
To swing open this reluctant heart.
Fire-drenched gold rewards those willing
To endure the struggle that tempers lesser men.
The blistered hands... I like that the work doesn’t turn magically pretty here, it’s still sore and heavy, but somehow... it becomes a little golden anyway, which is annoying in the best way.