Critical, creative and digital writingEcriture critique, créative et numérique

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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.