I hope you see warm sun

Because your skin is cold.

I hope you feel my rust

Because these gears have mold.

 

My heart was made from human hands.

My saw blades cut through bone.

My steam clanks slice through warm fibers

And now your hand is lively gold.

I guess I threw you in a cage

From sin to screw a tarnished age.

 

And saw blades can’t say sorry

Even if windfelt rain drowns to Christen.

But I’m crying human tears

And smashing the cogs for you to listen.

 

I hope you embrace a honey dahlia and not my platinum heart.

Because I cannot make but not one good gift from it

Like the sweet taste of summer apple tarts.

 

And I hope you forget the scars too quickly

And I hope she sews the skin

Because saw blades can only cut,

And your pain can’t be wrapped with tin.

 

I remember our saffronsoft sundipped days, 

But I forget my doubledspindled bound ways.

We danced in and out

against and for

My sturdy tools and your nurturing blood

Hoping through the fire and flood.

 

And saw blades can’t say sorry

At least not where flesh can hear.

Metal all too well loves living clay

Yet living fleets to death and drear.