The work felt good
In his arms and legs
And pumping through his heart
And for a moment
He wasn’t running from it
But feeling it all
Memory dripped down
His arms and back
In the form of sweat
And the pain of it
Was dulled
By the ache in his muscles
So he let emotion
Flow through him like air
For a moment he could see his life
Like he wasn’t living it
But reading it
In a fine piece of literature
Everyone just a character
And himself the protagonist
He saw his actions
And all his flawed motivations
In the midst of the jungle
Of life, he couldn’t see them
But now he could
And he realized
In his old age
He was weaving something
Beautiful.
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