MECHANIC

My dirty oily hands,
You kiss as though they were made of gold smeared in honey
My tools,
You clean with gentleness as though they were a sword of a Knight of Knights
My work,
You marvel at as though I was commander of armies of Knights

The touch of my greasy hands,
You yearn for as though they bore the warmth of the sun at dawn
My dirty feet,
You grovel at as though I was a god
My dusty head,
You crown as thought I was King of Kings

My eyes,
You look into as though in them lies salvation
My dry lips,
You kiss as though they were manna of life
My embrace,
You hold onto as though it was the breath you breathe

My dirty greasy lap,
You sit on as though it were a throne for a Queen of Queens
You honour me as though I am royalty
For many dare say, I deserve no such honour
For I am but a mere MECAHNIC

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