Flywheel

It is said that mankind is machinery

That people are but pieces and parts

Cogs and coils in some colossal cosmic clockwork

Our directions and diction dictated by dials

Our glee spun by gears, released from great gaskets

And our pride pumped in pistons

There are buttons for our bravery

Cranks for our cowardice

And timers and tripwires to trigger our tempers

We slip secrets beneath the skirting

Store our souls in secure sockets

 

But we have characteristics too complex for blueprints

And our wires all waver with a heavy human heartbeat

There are no light switches for love and for lust

They linger through lifetimes, never flicked on and off

There are no gears for grief, no sprockets for sorrow

Those are processed in pieces, never emptied entirely

 

But when sockets split, spinning schisms into skirtings

And our cogs become clogged, congested with compassion

When our engines expire, our pistons all perish, humanity remains

Our souls and our spirits, our sense and our sanity

Linger far longer than links, lights, and locks

And it's then we remember, once our steel's lost its sheen

Mankind may be machinery, but man makes the machine

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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