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Poem

My factory produces art,

The outside is composed almost entirely of stained glass,

When the sunlight hits it, it looks like it’s on fire,

It’s insides are filled with more color,

In the first room, the world’s best artists sit at aisles placed in a circle,

In the next room, graffiti artists attack the canvas covered walls with slashes of spray like mace,

A slide covered in inspirational drawings takes you to the largest room,

Where enormous sculptures are constructed,

Animals and people made of clay, stone, and marble dance, fight, and sit calmly as my workers work steadily to shape them,

Smaller rooms trail off from the sculpting room,

One of the rooms is a dance studio where my dancers make and test choreography,

Their bodies rise and fall, contorting into beautiful dances, as if they’re swimming through the air,

Another room is a photography hub,

World renowned photographers sift through their gorgeous snapshots, looking for the ones that pop in front of their experienced eyes, 

They discuss technique with each other, improving what’s already perfect,

The last room is my digital art room,

Animations of birds flying gracefully through the air adorn the ceiling,

My workers draw on giant screens and sell their work by thrusting their pieces into the cyberworld for buyers waiting at their keyboards to snatch them up,

My factory makes a distraction, gives motivation, and brings happiness to the world,

Or maybe not, 

Maybe I just made it all up,

That’s up to you.

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