The Machine

October 23, 2005

The machine in the mind never slows down

It produces nothing but creates noise

Horrific sounds that bounce around

The hard shell, echoing silently

Dirtying the once clean realm.

Light doesn’t reach the walls of this place,

Darkness rules with faint glimmers

Of faded stars somewhere


What keeps the machine running so smoothly?

No workers here, of course. No robots either.

Nothing but the bare walls, slick with mud.

The grooves of the machine

Dig deeply, cutting.

It’s painful

But nothing

Slows the machine.

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