Factory
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I own a rag recycle factory and life is noisy and harsh here, but the recycling happens and people are happy.
Industrial hum, rumble and roar,
Grinding metal bends and shrieks,
Into the world of dust, rust and grime,
Its how this machinery speaks,
And, during this time, people who work,
The people who live in this din,
Speak with this noise, speak with this toil,
Speak from without and within,
This organic life of hydrolics and lifts,
Symbiotic man and machine,
It becomes a sort of matrix of work,
That grows somewhere in-between,
Reliable and happy, efficient, exact,
Lives that are creatively matched,
In this factory of work, factory of farm,
Inside this metal grown plant.
Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2019
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