Cogs

Cogs twirl,
Cogs spin.
They twist 
and turn
and twirl again.

What keeps the machine going?
The cogs know.
It's that golden cog
That spins on its' own
Whether it rains, storms or snows.

But people outside, 
They can't see in.
"It's a miracle," they say.
So they take the golden cog out one night,
And the machine stopped working the next day.

"The cog was rusty," they said.
"It was ready to go."
But what about the cogs
Who had no chance to say 'No'?

They talked for a few days,
"It's a shame," they said.
"I'm sorry,", "Such a wonderful machine,"
The same things, over and over again.

Then it was dropped.
No one spoke of it again.
The cogs were silenced,
"Broken machines don't talk."
So they stopped. 
They talked in their heads.

Rust was imminent.
It appeared the minute the cog was removed,
Its' beckoning a sadistic ligament,
All it touched, it skewered and chewed.

People recognized this.
"It's a part of the process."
They would try to fix the machine, but they would miss,
Leaving the machine an even more broken mess.

Time passed, the machine creakked.
It did not twirl or spin.
Life left, and the machine barely blinked.
Hope was breathed out, rust breathed in.

The oldest cogs
Would tilt if pushed
But otherwise, they were still as logs,
Left broken, rusted, and crooked.

The golden cog had a partner,
But these days, he barely moves. 
Only to push the young cogs ahead,
Because they were all he had left to lose.

The youngest cog
Moved itself along
Trying to mask and forget the pain he had
Without the older cog.

Its older sibling
Stepped up to the plate
She had to fix this machine
And stop the rust's growing rate.

But the machine wouldn't work.
The gears only shifted.
It had the semblance of moving now;
None of the pain lifted.

The two young cogs
Worked in another machine.
This one was fast, moving,
The pain they had, only a glean.

The older one,
It didn't want to move.
It began hating this machine
For all the ignorance it brewed.

See, the machine could move without them,
The older of the two knew.
"It doesn't care,
So why do I try to show them the life I knew?"

But it dangled with hope.
"One day they'll understand!
If I just keep trying,
And I will, I can!"

Hope was a cruel thing to the cog,
The machine loudly laughed.
"Keep those things to yourself,
And go get yourself help!"

That wasn't what the cog wanted.
"Sometimes older cogs don't know what to say.
They feel different than I do,
And how can none of you feel this way?"

Then the rust reached the cog,
And the cog stopped trying.
It was worthless, the goal turning to fog,
And when the other cogs worried, she began lying.

She let the rust in,
And no one noticed.
It was as real as skin,
But to stop it, no one moved.

The old machine gets by on belief.
Hope is cruel, the grief all but deep.
Is the machine working?
No.
But does anyone care?
You should, now that you know.