I am particularly fond of this poem for personal reasons. - poetheart 12/31/00
Abandoned old factory, now dying forlorn
Your windows are broken, your shingles are torn
Once an abode of hard working masses
Your heyday is gone, as time moves and passes
Your whistle once blew at 8 o'clock sharp
To summon your slaves like a shrew on a harp
Their back breaking labor, your joy and false hope
Obsessed with production, the end of their rope
Your cracked walls betray a trouble within
You harbored the outcome of man's first great sin
Hands calloused in pain, his hope turned to pleading
Since cast from the pleasure and glory of Eden
Your edifice now, can't summon my pride
The chaff you called workers, struggled and died
Who lived just to work, an end in itself
Their ashes now stored in jars on a shelf
The sight of your silhouette makes me near sick
You robbed and you plundered the dead and the quick
The souls who have passed from your grey cursed hall
Still haunt your damp space, and echo your gall
What joy did you bring, what good did you prove?
And what of your future, the wrecker ball moves
You'll shudder and die as it crashes your length
To bring down your pride, and plunder your strength
And yet when you're gone, one problem remains
No respite from our toil, or from work a refrain
To live on this earth, we must bleed and sweat
To secure an existence, we struggle and fret
Is the crumbling shell of this factory at fault?
Are her scattered red bricks, really gold from a vault?
This rubble of rock is not life's truest measure
Only hope can bring happiness, joy, and real treasureby Eunice Irwin