The light at the end of the tunnel
Turns out to be a fleck of the halogen glow
Of a streetlight, a guiding beacon for the lost
The ****** and the awake in the hours of repose.

I count myself among the nocturnal demographic,
Cold, shivering, dejected till the first light of Dawn,
Brings me rest and sleep.

I am part of the night shift

With me are  thousands of others,
Walking towards the factories and mines,
Which feed the endeavour of materialistic existence.
A damnation that those who repose now,
Will never understand.

The shift begins in silence and ends in a blast of the siren,
Declaring our freedom, granting us permission,
To be free again, bathed in the first lights of Dawn,
As we ascend from the pits of the Earth,
The boiler rooms, chambers and assembly units,
In mines, factories, manufacturing plants,
To repose and miss the Sun,
Till the cycle begins again.