Grey skins
I glance at my right hand, sitting comfortably in my chair.
It is skin pink, the combination of thousands of cells.
I reflect upon those guys out there, I see them through the window,
Their grey skins stinking of cankerous cancer-like sorrow.
That young girl, twelve at most, locks with my look.
She smiles, shyly. Then a tear. Another. Then a brook
Flooding her face, washing the ashy grayness
That covers her from head to toe. Such sadness!
I'm responsible for that. When I see the first picture of the factory,
Where I pose with my investors, all radiantly smiley,
Then I realise the mistake. But it's too late.
Those exploited grey faces have nothing for their fate
Without this place. And yet, I'm broke, and soon I know,
They'll embrace their destiny of hopeless sorrow,
Courageous, proud, knowing they'll face their pain.
But I, I can't do that.
The last thing I see is against the wall, shattered pieces of my brain.
