The story of his life spent clutching instruments of labor.
The work hard and never ending and leading to nothing. Some men had progeny, but Jefferson never felt the need. The facts of his life untold but to those who had the misfortune to hear it from beginning to end some desperate morning.
The last of the true sun lost to the horizon
The story of Jefferson's life spent clutching instruments of labor. The work hard and unceasing and leading to nothing. His love spent on the fields and remaining unreplenished. Some men occupied themselves with progeny, but Jefferson never felt the need. The facts of his life untold but to those who had the misfortune to hear it from beginning to end some desperate morning.
The last of the true sun lost to the horizon and what light remained illuminated them in a shadowless haze. Their figures twisting and bobbing at the harrowed wheat's edge. Men bearded with skin like leather and women in men's clothing otherwise in frayed and clay stained dresses. Boys with skin unmarred holding what blade could be fashioned to cut wheat. Children in quickfooted pursuit of what imagined foe or bounty awaited them cloistered in the wheat. Young women whose fantasies distracted them minding the children.
The feather wheat on the wind and the insects that hop and fly like mad ambers in the hazy orange light, like faeries to Jefferson. He watched them scatter in spirals in his hand's wake. he watched the men. They no longer gathered the strength to cut in one swing and the repeated empty whispering affected him. He charged his scythe, and twisting himself like a great cog, he laid the wheat fallow. The renewing glow of the hour without shadows threaded his days together in his memory back to when he was a filthy and wayward child.
The night will bring scytheless men. Stone faced harbingers of light come to root out what laziness may hide in the shadows. When he does retire, it will be with men who are not like you. Men whose faces contorted with their tortured lives into something you can not even look at. Something truly ugly. They rest their flesh against the metal train car and look out at the passing Earth and curse their low birth. They walk along the railroad tracks, lanterns swinging and revealing them in pendugal turns, to what ramshackle dwellings they after all afford. Their inner world looking onto them, their regard for what they call a family, the families' regard for them. Not a moment of tenderness in their day. Nobody is grateful.