The Worker's Spirit.

Every life counts.

Taught and bred to us since birth, taught to us by our teachers, by art.

If it is not a lie, then why should I value the man who stands before me.

A clown, his face smooth, pale and unfettered by natural causes.

This man before me is beautiful.

His hands are slender, never having worked a day of their lives.

He is smarter than me.

He is better than me.

He is the other.

And I have found him here, with the rest of us, strolling the everyday streets.

A day with the peasantry.

My sweat and tears, the death to my dreams, has fed and comforted this man.

I have grown cold in winters, heaters too costly.

I sweat in the summers, fan’s too consuming.

This man will never know my name.

He will be born with blue blood.

Richer than I could ever dream.

His father’s gift, from his departed grandfather, and so it continues.

His life is worth more than mine, a fact.

His death will be noted, written, and posted.

On a whim the man could solve famine.

But he will indulge instead.

If I am to call him a parasite, that is to say that I am something.

But there is nothing here, this feeling nothing more than an idle fling.

My thoughts nothing more than a fleeting pang.

I resent, and I anger, but it takes one glance from this embroidered man.

For me to glance away, my desires nothing more than weakened claims.

Broken down, whipped and tamed.

I am the worker’s spirit, and I am long forgotten.