As structures of endless metal are erected,
the little town around the corner fades from memory.
My hands used to wield a scorching iron hammer,
now they grasp nothing but the items at my stationary.
All along the while my voice can manage nothing but a stammer.
What I once recognized as my kin has regressed
into a faceless classification to be analyzed.
I’m told that only three words remain audible:
Working, middle, upper. Working middle, upper.
How can this be true?
I have a voice!
But am I already through?
It seems I have no choice.
Looking for my past only points towards my lack of a future,
has what I once saw as nature concealed itself as nurture?
Personal desperation calls but the individual’s fate stays unbound.
I’m desperate, where is my home now? I remain unfound.
Created: Apr 08, 2012Andrew Savory Document Media