the lumber laments as it limits the light
but the sun still finds a way to seep gentle in,
to expose the useless machines, never seen again,
the labyrinth of the assembly line,
marks the laborious path as a metal shrine,
of what went beyond and what stayed behind
within the weeping walls of a wasted wish ,
dirt lays beneath the shadows as they dance and play
amongst the inner workings of metallic decay.
imprisoned here, every rusted part
is dull with dust, with death, the final work of art,
to be seen against the backdrop of a dream
belief was built to be brutally broke,
like the idol builders themselves,
quiet is the coffin of creativity, countless dusty shelves,
so stacked away they went with age,
leaving what they built for a different stage,
with every busted bit as a part of the heart |
Submission Name: The Factory
