WINNING WON’T COUNT.

The sun split open the surface of the field,
Whose fibre spilt its veins;
Hope, contemptible as always, called to their feet
Those needy of the rain.

The suffered left their shapes convinced,
And no one cared a bit,
Though some un-selfish issuer rescinded,
But still would not commit.

Sleep forwarded itself to mail and order,
Took up by slope and simp;
The brandishing of news was offered over;
Past those holding older stamps.

Be gone; be long gone, before the morning twists,
By order of nail crucifiers’ say;
And as overtime began to grow of this
All labour went that way.

Wherefore the tiny some considered none,
And from the mass of other things
It went a larger process had begun,
Forgotten forged again.

Performance hollowly resisted the attention,
Until their stare left your case,
And nothing else of theirs’ to mention
Was worth switching to in place.

Gone but not surrendered out of steps,
Or the invisible rise inside you,
If you didn’t let them overflow your debts
Then no hopers were denied you.