Endless Hours, Empty Pockets

They rise before the sun can glow,
In quiet streets where shadows grow,
To work the hours, long and slow,
Yet still, they struggle just to show
The dreams they had, now buried low.

With weary hands, they count the days,
As life slips by in endless haze,
Each paycheck earned, a fleeting phase,
But never quite enough to raise
The life they want, the dreams they praise.

They gave their years, they gave their all,
But now the echoes start to call—
A pension small, a life so small,
They wonder if they’ll ever fall
Into the peace they once foresaw.

For time is short, and strength is gone,
The work, the grind, forever on,
They wonder where the years have drawn,
As night creeps in, and hope is wan.
Their hearts grow tired, their dreams withdrawn.

So here they stand, the workers true,
Who gave their lives, who saw it through,
Yet still, the dreams remain askew—
They ask, "Was all this meant to do
Nothing more than just subdue?"

They labored long, they gave their best,
But where’s the time for peaceful rest?
The golden years, just one more test,
Of trying hard to still invest
In dreams that lie within their chest.

But money fades, and so does time,
The climb is steep, a bitter climb,
They wonder when they’ll reach the prime,
Of living life, not just the rhyme—
But still, they toil, for every dime.

And so they move, with heavy hearts,
Through days and nights, as hope departs,
Their lives, a tale of scattered parts,
Of dreams that stayed within the charts,
Of endless hours, and empty arts.