On Word
The world is a factory,
Full of machines;
Each replaced
By a new generation.
I am a robot, metal shell,
And full of clockwork.
But really
I am a breath
Dying inside.
As the gears continue
To turn onward,
An intricate jigsaw
Of moving parts;
The clockwork ticks,
And time breaks away;
As fair exchange
With becoming a Poetic echo.
Smoke floats high
From the tall chimneys;
It captures my imagination.
A dreamer myself
One ‘man’s' trash
Can be a real Man’s treasure.
Yet e’re replaceable
By a new model.
A different dream.
So like any sad scattering
Amongst the ashes of regret,
Will simply shift along
With all the other broken pieces
Of this tired universe.
