Machine

It’s a crime of passion
from a Frankensteinian dream…
you know it sucks me in able-hands are working
molding and caressing
toward something that is yet unseen
in my head is the seed that was implanted a long time ago
to be heard
you can feed it you can give it life for a day or two
with a word
I can sell it I can make it out to be what it is
a machine of grace
to caress the world in one embrace this far. no further
it’s our own creation
expression of our own design…
all gathered towards our own demise
foreshadowing senescence
fading softly through the night
your obedience is gained without a fight
in the blood of our cities…
of our countries has always been ourselves
crying out
you can choose to maybe feed it or let it all burn down
with a word
you can change it you can spread it and build it all again
a machine of grace
to caress the world in one embrace this far. no further
the greatest of inventions
the great deception of our time
and all willing to be led into decline…