It's snow outside and none stand chance
It's breathing and heaving in cold wet pants
And all singing 'end' because it all broke down
It broke and it choke and it split at seams
That's machine.
Like cold wet grass on baking street
With broken skin on desert feet
And beyond the line I see something fresh
But it shudders and huddles back with all my other dreams
Back to machine
Every word drowned with past and cracked
Tethered to my mind like hungry slaves, packed
To their eyes with goodbyes and I will stay here
Because there's glint in Sun and crick in spleen
All made for machine
Rusted tools here for measures upon measures
Broken smiles in broken pictures
Like similes I crown Stolen Art
With Tilted Soul and Drunken Routine
Thus born this machine