Beads, Ahead, and Others.

Strapping thrown over, stuck in place,
Lifting up the sack, that holds life of work,
Tightening against his skin, as he bends to lift a rock,
Sweat drips into his eyes, and onto his plot, where he slaves,
Dirt in his fingernails, and dark smudges across his face,
Salty drips, create little clean trails, down his forehead,
All of nature is ruthlessly beating, until the sun starts its sinking,
Tramping trudge, thumping back,
He opens the creaky screen, and lays down weary head,
Rest for his beat body, sleep for his sun dazed eyes,
And for tomorrow.