foundry, factory, madness

Cries from a Factory

Were that I a man like you,
Dutifully bound,
A man of every seasoned ploy
That laughs the mirror down
Hell-bent for the God-like touch
Of a long since crippled back,
From bending over backwards
To sound each martyred crack
A lap dog for a fetish play,
Cleansing each outfall,
With a tongue of weathered,
Leathered skin
And a worn out wrecking ball
Were that I a man like you
With a fair heart on my sleeve,
I'd pick up every shard of glass
And for my madness grieve.

© Severn Dwyer. 2009

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