Eyes already yellowed reflecting back off the golden shine of his beer;
They stare back sunken…so sunken…
Dark wisdom as his calloused finger spins the rim of the glass
The gloom conceals only the light of late day sun…
His hair is grayed and aged perceptively before its time
To not be here…not be here…
His soul is soured but wise
It can pierce a soul with but a sudden glare toward yesterday…
He takes a sip savoring the slightly warm ale
No longer cold…so cold
Like his heart sparking a vision
He does see all secrets hidden…
He has seen them before
He has seen…he has seen…
His world of blood sweat and tears
Is this a mask which burdens his smile but a façade…?
He knows of nothing more than the next swallow
And the next weeks labor…still next week again…
He draws upon his own pain spinning another circle upon the rim
Drunken in the blues he is…
Cursed to the daily toil of agonizing labor
Toiling tediously in the grind…to the grind…
He lightly flicks a fly as it floats to close to his warm ale
As he gazes back at the reflection of a working man’s self-portrait…
It floats back at him from the beer.
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