The Unseen

I see the lost and the lonely
in their rags and luminous jackets,
but despite these aids for the eyes,
they remain reluctant to see them.

Their faces are rough and rugged,
like cliffs battered by the sea.
Their eyes are dull and lacklustre,
devoid of understanding and hope.

Their shoulders are slumped;
they stand shorter than other men.
Their hands are hard with calluses,
and their hearts are hard with toil.

We ride on the backs of the Unseen;
our industry is oiled by their tears.
They are cogs in the great machine
to which they feed their waning years.

As a ‘civilisation,’ they are our stilts.
We stand above them, in the clouds,
lost in economics and logistics,
while they keep us on the ground.

We don’t see them; they embarrass us.
They shuffle in the dark, hands in pockets,
and seem to glow against a depthless void.
They are the Unseen.