His hands belong to the hammer
And the hammer to the spikes.
Every day, ground is harnessed
From San Francisco to Vancouver.
Exhale, and the muscles in his shoulders
Kiss the dirt and the strain.
One foot buried deep, the other to hold him steady,
Smearing life thin between the tracks.
Now, every breath he stuck in the dirt
Can still be felt
Rushing into your skin
Head out the window
Of these cars, tethered to midnight.
This is the only life
Where progress and purpose
Paint themselves in the sutra of our eyes
And it is here that I wish I lived.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 10:32 AM UTC
His hands belong to the hammer
And the hammer to the spikes.
Every day, ground is harnessed
From San Francisco to Vancouver.
Exhale, and the muscles in his shoulders
Kiss the dirt and the strain.
One foot buried deep, the other to hold him steady,
Smearing life thin between the tracks.
Now, every breath he stuck in the dirt
Can still be felt
Rushing into your skin
Head out the window
Of these cars, tethered to midnight.
This is the only life
Where progress and purpose
Paint themselves in the sutra of our eyes
And it is here that I wish I lived.