The Coin In The Hand

For those with lined pockets, the coin is king,

but those who have none weep.

Toiling their lives away for a paltry shekel,

barely enough to reach the end of the week.

Minimal coin for maximum effort

and a loaf of bread on the table.

Maximum sweat for minor reward,

existence, the name of this game.

Survival becomes the singular goal,

each crumb of comfort devoured with relish.

The sweat and the tears and the fear of collapse,

drive each and every decision.

The pain and suffering accepted,

it's what they must do to survive.

Scratching a living from the barren waste,

whilst society drowns in champagne.

The coin in the hand of broken men

shrinks beyond all recognition.

While those that control the coin of the man,

feast on tables of greed and delusion.

As every day passes they fight to survive,

cursing the gods of the coin.

As every day dawns, they rise once again

continue the path that they're on.

As every hour ticks away at their lives,

they struggle and fight to the end.

With each and every breath they take,

relieved they can do so again.

And they prey and they hope that the rising sun,

brings a change in their fortune and struggle.

Escape from the world of betrayal,

A new path on the road to survival.

© Fergus Martin

May 2013