Fuming furnaces or burning coal,
Pungent smell or puncturing stone,
I was encircled by none of these.
Helmet in head or boots in legs,
Spade in hands or soot in face,
I bore none of these.
Yet I call me a coal miner.
The sored and dried up lids,
Eyes; bathed in the blue light.
My hands upon the desk went
Frozen like a cold fish.
Shrunken by the adamant AC,
It shed white sickly scales.
The black liquid I drank before,
Sticked me to the seat for long.
White among white was the surfaces I saw.
The white floor,
the white walls and the white screen.
Yet I call me a coal miner.
My fingers moved swiftly over
the keyboard, curled and gnarled.
Wearied they looked,
though no boulder or gravel to carry.
Yellow sun rays were swept away by lucent LED lights.
Those unruly white lights blinded me,
Dropping me into a dusty dark tunnel.
Drowsiness drowned my heavy head down,
While the indistinct chatter grew louder and Louder-the lunch break.
I kept on mining in my shining laptop,
For coals that smoulders in my head.
My wasted muscles and slouching shoulders
Sniggered at my stiffened shirt.
White collared am I, yet I call me a coal miner!!
By: Treesa Cherian
Write and Win: Participate in Creative writing Contest & International Essay Contest and win fabulous prizes.
