Each morning it’s “off to work love.”
Each time I am lost, never could live without you,
pity me Lord, my body now frail
without a will to continue this trip
across the Milky Way, it’s just too much.
I can’t bear this loneliness, lungs struggling,
this heart’s dragging me here and there.
“Doing good Arty,” the nurse says somberly.
“You’ll be running about in no time.”
Where too, I wonder and to whom or what,
a gurney maybe rolling slowly to man’s self built hell,
sifting sands of my time on earth?
A hole no doubt, a wooden box where it’s ‘off to work love.”