his work, his creation
I wrote this poem while listening to “Reptilian” by NIN. His music always gives me certain feelings. This was the outcome. I’m pretty proud.
he lumbered on
dirty sweat ran salty through his brow
"wipe it off
too late to stop”
too gone to care
his muscles tighten and loosen
as he brings his arms up
and slams them down again
with the power of a stampede
of a thousand bulls pumping
thrusting forward
escaping and chasing all at once
he lost the feeling in his legs
long before his feet numbed
the pounding follows the pattern
of his busted heart
as he brings his arms up
and slams them down again
he has no purpose for his actions
other than perfection that he seeks
in himself and his creation
his creation
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