Comfort

   
Comfort
 
It’s strange – and sad – that some may spend their hours,
Their days and months and years – and even lives –
In labor – that of duty or of love,
And yet – have only scars to show for this.
 
For when in luck, they then were left alone,
When not, they earned their reprimands and worse.
And as they worked, they came to bear in mind
That punishment could follow labor hard.
 
Discouragement is practiced, as an art,
By some, who "supervise" the ones who work,
Who’re punished, not for callousness or lies,
But for adherence to the truth – and heart.
 
But others might survive and even thrive
By doing as they’re bid, not questioning.
They mind their business – or they claw and climb.
They know the price for deviance is high.
 
So some might find what I have written strange,
But others, who have labored, felt the lash,
May recognize the things of which I write,
And find some comfort then in company.
 
2014 July 27th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York