Red Letters

We are consumed by time
that piles up on the doormat,
red letters marking urgent
next to the short slip of long hours.

Our most precious resource,
splashed across workshop floor,
spent before the week ends
on scraps left from the machines.

Sunlight falls with a struggle
on dreams of bread and roses,
darkening the doors of the public house
and the private accounts.

We are consumed by time
that drowns in the night,
shivering amongst the stars
set against the dark blue.

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