In a world devoid of color, she labored daily
punching a time-clock that measured each moment
in a monochrome slide, driving her further into the ground
Burying aspiration, slaughtering ambition
in the factory of broken dreams
Like a makeshift reaper gathering a bouquet of dead blossoms,
each shift mocked a life that could have been
Her ashen skin too fragile from years spent within windowless walls,
she worked the line in habitual motions
systematically stamping out any desire to play
In the moment when cogs stuck and machines fell still
and sunlight slipped in from an open door,
fresh air wafted over dusty floors
creating silver whirlwinds and a jab of color
that called her heart to beat in a symmetrical rhythm
punctuated by possibilities only time could tell
photo: mine
prompts: 3WW Week No. 450
Poet's Corner 
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