The Machine
I write a poem about the relentless machine in my mind, where noise, darkness, and pain keep grinding without slowing down.
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
Nowhere.
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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