The Grey sky cries, shedding tears of rain.
The Factories spew the molten metal into the air.
I shiver, from the cold and the fog.
I walk to the factory where I complete the mundane task of hitting the hammer against the sheets of aluminum that pass on the belt.
I see the beggars, the homeless, the starving, the sick, the weak, and the dead.
drowning in the relentless torrents of misery and misfortune.
The sun shines not, stolen from the sky.
I attempt (unsuccessfully) to heal the thousand festering cuts that criss-cross my hands.
My hands have not tried to rebel against the hardship, but contribute to my deprivation.
Hammering, continuously, for our good leader,
who gives us not food and water, but executions and beatings.
And we are bound to him steadfast with our tedious labor.
I focus not on the clouds, our leader, the hammer,
I focus on the dawn, the sun that will someday rise.
Comments about this poem (The Factory by King Noone )
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