Blood & Oil

Of his heart, carried the crest of his people.

The machine of their leaders, cold and toxic.

Fatigued arms now too painful, sore and cripple,

To lift up the engine so vitriolic.

His mind abraded so thin.

Their flesh he swore tanned from pigskin.

The light he shone but could not see,

Gave life to this now undying tree,

His strife, his plight now galvanised into alacrity.

The people's soul now given chance to break from this onerous factory.

-Ihra Brookner