Posted by: Devin | December 19, 2012

Sawmill Vagrant

The old sawmill’s blades are ringing out
As a man folds idle hands
By a river steeped in filth and buzzing with
the multitudes of flies
He’s an overqualified underachiever
And he’s got nothing but this
No paycheck prophets
Night-time kisses
On his tired brow
A can an hour, two if lucky
To keep his insides warm
Free from crackling, ice shapes shifting
Nothing seems to fit
Outside inward, one would wonder
What gives him this drive
Each day a struggle
Weary, winding
Crippling in its haze
But breath in lungs, willpower, solace
In each beatbeatbeat he gets
If the fog ensnares
Pulls under
He’ll still have his dreams
And inner self for love and comfort
In this rotten world
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
But he doesn’t strive for much
Just self-acceptance and the freedom
To live the way he wants


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