the factory hums, streets spit smoke,
hands clasped tight, an unspoken pact—
trust stitched into the seams of grime.
we are the rats gnawing the wires,
the dreamers with dirt-buried eyes.
you pull, I push, the wheel groans.
great deeds are accidents of sweat,
born in shadows, baptized in whiskey.
discovery isn’t lightning, never magic,
it’s boots worn thin on bad roads,
it’s sharing the hollow of a trench,
knowing the other won’t run—
the fire burns brightest in company:
this brute world, held up by bruises,
moves forward because we agree to
split the load and drink after.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: October 21st, 2025 11:14
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
I was going to say some great lines in this poem but that would be a lie. The whole poem is full of great lines Gray a fave
Thanks Soren
You are most welcome Gray
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