The Work

The work is done in the mines,
in the dark places
where the air is foul
and there is no light,
in narrow passages,
winding through rock,
your muscles and soul sore
from the backbreaking work
of finding your way,
the only light
the one you carry yourself.

About this poem.

Spawned by the picture, which was taken at the Slate Valley Museum. So much of what we go through, though others help us, is done our own souls and hearts and minds.