weariness sweeter than smiles
we live each breath exhaled
measure progress not in miles
but by the will of next taken step

the roaring gale of the senses
is focused to the little sail tacking
to the doldrum of dreams catching
us hopeful of desired memoried rest

to the beating drum of bone
ali plodded ever forward and up
for who would take this bed of blood
enslaved by curse to chain his neck

exhaustion jolts the lamb to spray
his cheeks in running rivulets
that snake their way unto his lips
without a thought he licks away

on the second day come torments
from the wing a careless song
transports him to his perch of night
and lotvia picking strings so bright

the weary and the worker do not love
to them the greatest virtue is to cease
better to allow the fleeting thought
ideas distract and regrets increase

only prayers sustain him now
fifty times each day he prays
never once does he look down or back
just forward to the judgment day