factory poem

The Factory
The noise of clanks, gurgles and gargoyles, clasped in chains of cold iron and blood
Walls strewn with dark, festering figures, enslaved to toil and labour ad infinitum
For the wants of rich gentlemen, strutting around, unaware of the misery in which they are eternally complicit

Stumps of ancient wooden bodies, once mighty and joyous with life, now reduced to a forest of dregs
Ghosts of the people released from this life in the welcome embrace of a forgiving afterlife
Seemingly nailed into the ambience, the thought of peace at last
After a life of work and labours into the cold clutches of oligarchs
The Factory arises, out of the ashes of the many
The Factory is alive once more.