Each hour in our life

A Poem by MrBlack202

Each Hour in Our Life
I am hurt,
not by the life I lived,
but by each moment of life.

I sought solidarity in the hive,
where I wore the prisoner’s stripes
busy, while business was done
in black and yellow.

Like the others, my sight was blinded,
turning always toward the light.
I followed the sunflower,
its face lifted to the sky by day,
its head lowered by night,
obedient to the sun’s passing.

Sweetness was born in the field.
Labour fed the hive.
Labour became purpose.

I protected the hive
with my heart on my sleeve,
giving myself to the work,
to the turning,
to the hours.

Until the final moment,
when I am hurt
not by the life I lived,
but by each moment of life.