Bound in flesh that is spun like clay,
around pulleys and gears.
The animal trapped inside watches through the looking glass at the world is cannot touch.
The soul pulls its chains tight in yearning and fury.
What an artist cannot paint without hands,
what a musician cannot sing without voice is the chains that bind us all.
the machines...
What burning touch from the furnaces that move our clockwork,
the last beating organ spreading its red vines in contempt and defiance;
against the ever rolling steel of one's cage.
That burning touch through the clay that steams;
breaking the only silence demanded by the slings and arrows of past writers demanding eternal loyalty to that which losses its luster.
In the ever dulling glaze of the looking glass and its machine.
Leave the machine to its work ... For its dreams are but clicks and steam.
About the Creator
Christopher Pen
Night Shift, Lazy Dreamer, New Writer
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