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From Blood To Oil

Free me from machinery’s sum
That counts us all as cogs;
Without a face we take our place
As ciphers on the logs

Timecard punched, we’re packed, we’re bunched,
Defined by job’s descript;
No thought, just toil, from blood to oil
How short that tangent trip.

A bearing, a race, a hardened case;
The proximate forge of firing
Stiffens steel ‘til none can feel
Freedom’s call inspiring.

The piston moans, and grinds our bones
Until, once worn, discarded;
New parts roll in as lines of men
Are standing where we started.

They’ll shovel and stoke with coal and coke,
Their iron wheels on tracks;
They’ll watch the sky with envy’s eye
As steam escapes the stacks.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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