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