Hard Hat/Blue Collar/Scarred Tears/Subterranean Beauty

It's just a
perfectionist's memory
looking up from the pit,
Remembering

All the pairs of workboots
That lie refused, beaten, and rotten
But unused:
I remember the pit worked itself, that

And the greasy moisture drops that condescended
up, inside the colored part of the eyes
In pairs of two, two lively beasts
they would shift, bend, then smile
with the curvature of an ever more distorted image

The pit's memory and the round tumbling colors
Throw up honesty and homage, covering the
underground monument honoring those who
Live numb and honest

It's a good job for me
I construct monuments
Fitted with pits and valleys
And balance and peace

 

I'm blown away. I have only one question: why is the narrator a perfectionist? How does that affect the monuments that the narrator creates, and the pit that the narrator digs?

 

Umm.. this is... whatever you want it to be, as is basically all of my writing. There will be vague, disgusting, and beautiful things to come in the future. But the best I can describe this, is its the Universe, and cycles of being.