Wooden hands ignoring the shavings and the dust
Slacken the floor beneath them, stares at metal that never rusts
The hands get smaller, metallic sheen haunting you
No hint of color in reflection, clear and silver no intruding hueWalking out the doorway the clacking of the tiles
Wish it was cobble stones and horses in the night
It’s not to back up to former times
Yearning for some textures to feel coarse or hot
The steel stays cool nothing marks the day
Nothing dies and nothing blooms, but I feel time anyway
The shrinking of the wooden hands the only clue of use
Somehow I really know no one should be so reduced
To be a slave of labor to be a productive tool
Profit to the owner spare oats for the mule
Wooden hands ignore no more
Wooden hands don’t try to even the score