The Factory of Dead Things by William Taylor, Jr.
I have seen a lifetime of dreams
like so many birds
shot from the sky by some redneck’s
I have seen the horror of life written
in the eyes of stillborn faces
like chapters from a dimestore
The days arrive on my doorstep
straight from the factory of dead things
and I line my hours up against the wall
and pick ‘em off one by one.
There is a strange music in my head
and it sounds like the suicide
and I could not tell you which I am more
I try explaining this
to a friend over many beers on a
and he suggests a change of scenery,
perhaps a trainride to somewhere I’ve never
been. Familiarity breeds
contempt, he tells me.
I suppose he’s right, but
most things do.