The Infinite Miners
The wind is uncomfortable, almost biting,
The souls, in all their agony, begin reciting,
The unfinished walls, dripping with red paint, blood,
The fences scream, but just like their lives, are stopped with a single brazen thud.
The hands, gravelling aggressively, soon succumb to the sweat,
The lips dry, swollen, and pink, are blessed with the smoke from the infinite cigarette,
The ground beneath, shakes and trembles, just as their fragile grey bodies,
Their shirts, dripping of the stench of a thousand dead rats, that they would, in all their magnificence, rather be.
Their ghosts circle the hole in the ground, contemplating,
Their chests, bare naked, just as the day they were born, with the torches, eternally illuminating.
Their hands, in all their immortality, still offends,
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”
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