Movement

Smoke.
Nothing but smoke and spitting into the wind.
Pain and grief from dawn to dusk.
Never a nights rest.
Cut your ties and count your losses.
There is a right time to rip out and another to mend.
The tears no use for iron grip.
But you sit back and take it easy. . .
Your sloth is slow suicide.
One handful of peaceful repose,
Over two fistfuls of worried work.

~Jory