Everyman’s labour

To work, 

to plough through this naked land, 

to lay 

your bones on the slab; 

to brake 

your heart in silent agony, 

to sculpt 

the subtle mist;

to serve 

the immaterial, 

to feed 

the grand illusion;

to perfect 

the perfect pretense. 

To be, 

then not.

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