elizabeth-mary

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The FactoryThe workers say his eyes light up, Like headlights on their cars.When he talks about painting pictures,They share their dreams with him.They ask him why he took this job,Long nights and bright lights.He tells them life isn’t free,They know how it goes.Numb fingers from endless tasks,Dry eyes strained and distant.Aspirin soothing sharp headaches,Leaving the factory as the sun rises.Arriving home exhausted,Glancing at the easel.He never sleeps right away, First he paints his dreams.

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UntitledWhat would it be like,To be a raindrop?And your only job,Was to crash?

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