Breaking Clocks

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

3 words a day #294