inner loitering

no stance is taken,
as the dreamer hacks away,
carving and hammering,
hammering and carving,
while the city presses down,
presses the stress down,
arrogantly defining the intonation,
but still, 
the dreamer's work,
the struggle-in-itself-for-itself,
a relative of the authentic "free" type of freedom,
a bit more bottled,
but it's good,
it's real,
and scraped,
like the hands of a craftsperson,
it's rugged and rusty,
blistered eloquence,
splintered excellence,
it's glory contained between concrete lines.