The Plow

The ever renewing, tasteful, warm energy of morning coffee, transforms men into machines, ever working in jeans and white shirts;

As it hits midday and the plowing stops, one second of self-reflection, and ten minutes of sustaining food, swallowed fast, and indigest, unbecoming and partly faulted.

It's thy wit and thy strength, O boy! Thy swollen, dirty hands of coal. Retrospect of a life not lived, of thy dying dreams in those caves, in the dark underground thou sweats without a breeze, without the sun in thy back.

O, boy! You’ll fasten thy pain, thy back hurts as it hits the rock, as it plows in no intervals of breath;

Thou’ll breath as soon as it stops, a long sleep at the dirt lying thy head on the floor. Death comes to everyone, though to some men, she happens to be a sexual partner, making love eternally into dreams of liberty, into dreams of happiness.

O, Boy! Don’t forget thee, and where thou came from, along the Mississippi and that river that reflects the sun and never stops rolling, to have ultimately one last reaction to the light, to the words of people that matter, that have someone.

Thy love awaits for thou, not far from the surface, it itches beneath thy fingers, it cries beneath its weight, O boy! Don’t ever stop loving, don’t ever stop dreaming, for thou’ll quit, and that rock will remain in thy way.

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

This poem has a strong message. That in life we become lulled into accepting decent hard work over what we dream of truly wanting to be. Our lives become mundane by the same daily action and numb to the passage of time. This daily grind taking away what aspirations we once held within. In the end leaving us empty and nothing more than machines of flesh. A very strong piece of writing Abon thank you for sharing.