The Grind

 Eating to work, 

 Working to eat, 

 The same thing done, 

 The same day run,

 Only the date changes,

 In mockery of time. 

 The reason escapes, 

 The power of reason, 

 Finding an end to the means, 

 In the means to an end,

Seldom  catching one's breath, 

 In wondering why.

 The picture is painted, 

Upon the canvas, 

 Yet is the canvas contemplated, 

 By the painters hand? 

 Without the canvas, 

 Is there an image? 

 The fibers are grown, 

 In fields  flowing, 

 Rising from rain, 

 Harvested from pain, 

 Spun together, 

 To weave the fabric. 

 The paints are made, 

 From things of the earth, 

 Moistened and mixed, 

 Bottled and stored, 

 Yet without which, 

 No painting can form. 

 It is only through pain, 

 It is only through work, 

 That the backdrop is made, 

 Where magic can come, 

 Where the heart may express, 

 And miracles may run. 

 And such is our lives, 

 Within the daily grind, 

 For without this canvas, 

 For which we work, 

 No miracles could come, 

 From our acts of love. 

 Just like in the garden, 

 With patience and toil, 

 With sweat and heartbreak, 

 Life's miracle strikes, 

 New shoots do appear, 

 Then the blossoms do come. 

  What seems without meaning, 

 Supports the meaning of life, 

 Producing the moments, 

 Which are never forgotten, 

 Giving chance for the miracles, 

 That change now and forever.