Caught in life’s avalanche,
Always downhill,
Weary of mind ,
And deprived of a will,
Trading his body
For his share of bread,
He lives in a cosmos
Of misery and dread.
Always he dreams,
Through the sweat, of a day
He might ascend
And be King for a day
So he, from the heights,
With a newly-found vim,
May trod on the fingers
Of those below him.
by Ray Romine Saturday, December 1, 1945
