Wednesday, July 15, 2020

Life drips with each drop of sweat that he sheds,

The insignificant one without a name,

Death alone he welcomes without dread,

For his effort draws in vain,

Yet each time the sun rises,

He is up again,

Wears and grinds his bones,

As his soul fades,

His voice sighs in anguish,

His eyes plead to see,

What his hands ache to touch,

And his heart screams to feel,

Yet he remains,

The one with no name,

Whatever gained soon stolen,

His life a toy for fools,

To use him as they will,

No standards,

No rules,

For he remains,

The obscured shackled victim,

Blinded by an illusion he clearly sees,

Still, he remains,

The one with no name,

Behind the masks of corporate insensitivity,

With robotic and strained movements,

He moves,

The final hours wear him thin,


Eyes closed,

He breathes no more,

Forever to remain,

The one with no name.


Photo by John Noonan on Unsplash

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