The daily grind when work is but a golden handcuffed check
Can numb the soul and set the news about the troubled neck
The easy habit, go to work, and shuffle thru the day
Brings not the joy, long dreamt about, to rise above the fray
But simple comfort, able steps, require little thot
And so they pile up day on day inside the belly pot
The sites of hope, less visible, are stretched all near about
And cloud the path out from the dire, disheartened fields of doubt
But somewhere in that tundra vast a flair of hope will bloom
Some semblance small amidst it all, stretched out against the gloom
So as that sea of daily scree chases round the tail
Clamors on that wisp, ere small, against the endless pale,
Note its pure persistence, how the bloom beats back the cup
And use that bud inglorious sprout to make your pathway up.

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