Like the rotating gears of an inner machine,

She changes even by staying in the same spot,

Patiently moving, to the rhythm of her set nature,

Ignoring the outside noises.



Like the loud tolling of a bell,

They sway to the inner strings,

A repeated constant noise to a humdrum existence,

A shiny exterior to a loud existence



Like the pipes that carry fluids,

He sits there and lets all of them pass,

Maintaining an inner path and an outer protection,

A crazy network of rusted metal, inside and outside.


They all sat there with their roles,

Predetermined and within routines,

Arranged to never go in disarray,

Programmed to function and never question.


Some of us do. Some of us realize it and break.

Some of us manage. Some of us sit here and write this.

Some of us, are still stuck in that factory.