The Life Of He Who Worked

His hands are stained
From the work
From building the house
Wood by wood
Nail by nail

His face is a map
Of all the routes and streets
He roamed to give her the best
And only the best
Because she deserved no less

His eyes are blinded
And the deep blue is now nothing
But a pale marble
Yet her beauty still
Reflects on it

His tongue is dull
From all the times he had sharpened it
To speak to her and surprise her
With the words he knew
And the rhymes he made

His soul
His tiresome and lonesome soul
Yearns for her love
Because it knows
However wishes not to know
That her departure weakened him
It tore his existence

His life is meaningless
Because she was the only one
To ever bring it a purpose
But with her leaving the door
Out with her went his meaning

But he lives
And long live
His life

The life of a man
Who has worked
And worked
And worked...