at times.
this work, this life
of mine.
the climb gets steeper
with every day.
the steps
getting harder,
the weight
of hours heavier
with each lifting
of another bale of hay.
but it's not for money
anymore.
not at this age.
it's not for bread
or shelter, or ale
when it's time to close.
it's for something else.
something
that i don't even know.
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