You have slaves

but you never see them.

There she lies: on the cold, hard floor.

Her eyes flutter open; she dreads another day of

toiling to make your iPhone, the shoes you call "Jays."

Morning after morning, and night after night

she sews, begins again; all her attempts forthright.

Not a minute for the bathroom, not a minute for a breath.

She contemplates heaven; how she may face death.

She saw her child, a few weeks back.

The creature approached her, and beheld her face.

Neither a moment of remembrance

nor a moment of good grace.

She frees herself from that cold, hard, floor.

All around her souls linger

and stare with vacant eyes.

They don't attempt to stop her, for they also plan to try.

The city never sleeps, and neither do the workers.

Industry: a blessing, yet a constant, evil lurker.

She leaps from the window, and spreads her arms:

free at last, not a single qualm.

How could she have stayed?

How much better could it get?

Then she falls into the belly of a 

Western

suicide net.

You have slaves

but you never see them.