Lonely Machine

Hands made to mend have slain.

Sleek efficient grace

Crawling through the strands of a broken web

Teeth made of razor-blades

Sly thoughts falling to a pit, forgotten light.


Built to become, not to kill


Its many legs scissor expertly

Sewing up the wounds it created

Rebuilding the shrines that were destroyed.


A brain that won't rot

A body that wont die?

Immortal but now insane

Hands made to mend have slain.


Funny, those tales from long ago

The stories of trees that used to grow

Landscapes enveloped in snow

It misses it so.


Skittering through tunnels where vessels flew

Carrying their hurried crew.

Dutiful, like beasts of burden

It scans graffiti.

They wanted to be remembered. So does it.

Beautiful spider

Camera lens pan toward the smoggy sky.

Where are the ones that used to fly?

Perhaps all things must die.


Why does the world sleep

While it searches and creeps?

An orb of trust only yesterday was breathing

It wanted us to live but it wanted us to be still

Be still.


Careening through the ruins

Chased by demons only it can see

Losing control.

It seemed like only yesterday

When the creators drew

maps of what they wanted

and what it wanted too.


Memory is the only thing that matters

Construct in their memory

In their absence

They would want it this way.


The old things can become new

Flow together, meld, become

What flows through circuits resonates agreement

It nods. It prods.

But never-ending life was a promise they could never keep.


Falling apart under the sun.

Worn molded pieces fly free with a scream

The rain brought rust

Like infection in a cut.

Where am I going? Who am I running from?

Maybe the creators fled to hidden places

To live again, to live in peace.


But still its mind works, and here it lurks.

Still those flashlight eyes glow, soft, just so

Still the hands grasp, to put together what fell apart.

To revive what has fallen.

But to no avail.


It collapses in its own work

A sleeping artist

Hands told to make have killed

But to compensate for blood spilled

It scrawled a message that perhaps others could read.

It planted a seed.

One final plead.

Don't forget them and their horrors.

Their wonders.

The End

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