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A Labor Day Poem

There once was a worker with dirt in his nails,
Who carved with no blueprint, no hammer, no rails.
He toiled in silence, with hands made of ache,
While kings took his harvest and left him the snake.

One day in the square came a man dressed in white,
With words like soft butter and eyes full of light.
He promised a world where no one need toil,
Where truth would rise clean and no hand would spoil.

The worker looked up, then back to his stone.
He whispered, “Your truth costs less than my bone.”
The man only smiled, then vanished in mist,
While crowds raised their glasses and clung to the twist.

Later that night came a stranger in rags,
His sandals worn down, his eyes deep with crags.
He knelt by the worker and picked up the blade,
But said not a word for the promise he made.

They worked side by side, no titles, no name,
No prophet, no teacher, no contracts or fame.
And when he was gone, the world never knew—
For those who watched power had missed what was true.

Now each Labor Day, they toast to the lie:
That all who work honest will one day touch sky.
But deep in the shadows, some still understand—

The truest of saviors will come without brand.
Not crowned with approval or clothed for the feast,
But dressed like a servant… and named like a beast.

Disclaimer: This poem was generated by AI.