Postcards Signed By The Inferno

        I found myself in awe, struck almost like that of a lightening bolt, surging through my entire frame, by the fire that burns inside the chest’s of men cursed to the work in the iron mills. The air they breathed was poison; a black, vile,  disease of the lungs. What lives they led  to the open-mouthed machines they fed raw iron, while they themselves were unfed and famished. Many devoted their souls to sleepless nights, trapped inside these buildings of flame and ash. It all felt so surreal to me.
     Their working conditions racked my sense of security, so much that I felt afraid to think any further into the matter, like I would be somehow be dragged from the comfort of my home, and forced to work in those very same mills, in a place hidden to the world. I over dramatize the matter, because I both fear and respect these men and their profession. The strength they must have had to face each day, knowing that there was no sense in fighting for tomorrow, to accept their place in society, as the working poor, the dirt poor, was a level of physical power I could not begin to understand.  
     Images of despair flashed in my young mind; postcards of a world that held so many brilliant minds in its dark corners, where a man’s talents could never see the flickering light of success. I had wished for my imagination to be blinded, so that those 4x6 images would never pain me again. Sights and echoes almost unbearable ignited on the glossy surface and the air around me, forging themselves on an iron beam in my memory.       
     The horrid imagery haunted my thoughts, crept underneath the surface of my cold, sweating skin, and made me look at how much misery these men endured, as well as the wives and family at home, fearing what dangers hid in the night. All the while I layed on my warm bed, with a full stomach and clean clothes on my back. How blessed I felt, how safe, and secure I was, and to know that I would never experience such turmoil as these men had in their lives, brought warm water to my eyes. Would it be fair for me to compare my troubles, my obstacles in life with theirs ? No. No, because I have not stared the Devil in his volcanic eyes, or washed his putrid filth from my body.
     A life in the iron mill seemed like that of an afterlife in Hell, and I believe these men were aware of this fact; that every second that ticked away from the work clock brought them closer to this realization. They knew death was loitering around the corner, calmly smoking under a dim street light, but it would not do them any good to try and escape; they were trapped in the inferno no matter where they ran, or rested their head.
     A man of the mill was never quite cleansed of the ashes that surrounded him in the night; the black and ominous floating film of death. It almost seems that these men had come to accept their demise, long before their first shift had ever ended.