Working With Steel To Steal

All he wants, is a son to hold his home up. 

All she wants, is a voice that mattered enough.

And all they took, was opportunity 

amongst the waves and windows of life. 

All God asked for, was a minute or two with this book,

but it was more than that, 

like your time and your hands,

and those moments in the middle of the night.

Or in the cold due, of the morning grey, 

That a thank you is something you could 

muster up to say.

For breath, voice and knees that bend.

But we’ve all been afraid of the cheat. 

So it’s safer to copy that style. 

So easy, we continued to repeat.

Entitled, coming to the alter with a blank page,

and paint on her fingers. 

Asking why, as the hand of his future wife, 

ever lingers.

We’ve worked, but the work was not enough,

not right enough. 

Awaken in that one person fit fashioned bed. 

A headache racing to his head, a night before, up to late,

and he wonders why the leg of the dinner table isn’t yet fixed,

Isn’t yet straight.

As the coffee mug falls to the floor, shattering, 

like everything before.

And we wonder why the porch light still flickers.

Kings of our own canvas, someone else to paint. 

Masters of our own homes, that someone else should create. 

Maybe respect is in not being king. 

Maybe respect is remembering why she was worth more

then that diamond ring. 

Come to the alter, with closed ears, shut eyes,

open mouths, demanding God, Why?

Where they steel mill workers, working steel to steal?

Are we steel mill workers, working with steel to steal?

-By Eric Weick 

Reviews

[Adreamer's Bluejay]

This poem kinda makes you stop and think though it has an interesting way of getting you to that point. Interesting write

[Eric Weick]

Thank you PaintedPheonix.