Rain contrived by a factory producing salty merchandise,
The droplets plunge onto a brown tarnished casket table.
Ants must enjoy the water, but they cannot endure it,
But they come inside with me to stay dry, but are greeted by an indoor storm.
The factory is ran by a talentless manager, his clipboard a blank mind,
Producing products that break down, stored in a room with a sealed door.
The next old object stashed is a stained broken plate, wet from tears,
The ants march on dirty spoons laid to rest on the ground up to me.
Blueprints of the cogs made from reverie, they spin,
They rotate the conveyor belts out my windows soul.
Windows boarded up with fleshy pink planks, cracked in between,
Letting the wind out, instead of letting it in. I suffocate.
Solar powered machine, but I haven’t seen the sun in days.
It’s the saddest weather when all you see is rain and no light,
It’s ruining the homes of ants, and leaving a feeling of being fixed.
But where can one find help, stuck down in sewage drenched dreams?
A corrupt management leader, unfinished broken products lay to waste,
The only finished product is salty water for ants to bathe & consume.
They drink it along with stale bread, sided with margarine in a butter plate,
It’s suppose to feel warm inside, but they don’t feel warm inside.
The uniform, reflects everything else in here,
Dirty, battered & lost. In need of an ironing to rid wrinkles.
The paint is flaking, leaving an atrocious building hunched over,
Covering it up with new paint might work, but it’ll always be same.
I count the hours left on this 20 year shift,
This factory always exist, while the ants struggle to live.
They are drowning, along with many aspirations,
And I’m drowning with them, locked away in this valueless chamber.
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