The Machine

The Machine slowly lurches forward
Through the blackness
‘Through the red
Through the razors
Through the thorns
Its flesh is ripped
But continues to run
Clanking and turning
Wheezing and coughing
putter . . . putter . . . putter
.. . But moves on
On its last leg
Low on oil
Cranks turn
Gears grinding
Systems over-loading
Maximum overdrive
The Machine *painfully* lurches forward
Forward in agony
The wounds reopen
Sweat stings inside
Way past warranty
Parts discontinued
The Machine tries to lurch forward
Ready for the scrap heap.

~Joseph M. Barat ©1994 by Devyn