Harder Metal

The words haven't come of late, all I've felt
is hate for my job, its worth, its toll
a consistent birth of anguish and time-juggling.

I haven't learned to cope with the fraughtness
of it, the personal force outward-going,
a consistent giving away, invasion of one's
privacy of soul, an inward eating daily,
of stealthy, smuggled poison in the blood.

And the fey gleam in my eye is drying in that
too-serious wind, scorching in the sun unrefreshed
for no rain comes.
But I am budding strong, young yet, and my enemies 
have not won their fight.
I test afresh their mettle, every bout, remain
consistently above their murk, for I am clean 
and made of sterner stuff, my words
a harder metal, of more worth.

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