The Mill

warm sleepless nights
walking the tracks
past the place
where sweat poured tears
down backs bent
to tasks like
bad habits unbroken
totting lives counted down
in heavy hours
punched on cards
clocking routine in
systematic rounds
through dust heat
and musky peat
rising off logs
curing in brine
to be rolled on
lathes slicing transparent pulp
ribbon-thin like skin
stacked in layers
awaiting the dryer
pressing essence out of life
into crisp slateboard slats
recording memory
in simple steps
frozen in stasis
for those who passed
points of no return
without recourse
choice or escape
from the place
where poignancy rings
in echoes from voices
of a thousand sons