The Worker - Ryan Walton

The day is done,
Done with hard work and toil,
Toil that puts creases in the forehead and hands,
Hands whose skin had become hard,
Hard as the rocks they remove from the ground,
Ground that is dry and difficult to work,
Work, day in and day out,
Out, under the scorching sun for hours,
Hours of torture, with little reprieve,
Reprieve, the scant hours of the night,
Night, cools the blaring, horrendous heat of the day,
Day like an oven now extinguished,
Extinguished like a fire leaving behind only darkness,
Darkness, shelters the man from his work,
Work, day after day...