The Machine

The sky and the stars in the night are blight, with the shine of the ever present of an eerie light.

No rain no snow no evening fright is brought except for the light.

The light continues to elude the civilization that it protrudes throughout the evening dew as if to seclude the civilization that it humbly deludes.

The light ganders at the fright at which by night controls the remnants of the streets at which it used to sweep as it continues to beep the everlasting beats of city's streets.

The light illuminates from the machine an abomination of sheer intuition brought by man's creation.

The sun's own rays cannot evade the simple sways of the machines veins that traverses the city's endless plays.

The sheer people that the machine ploys as if they were meer toys continues to honor the destruction of one's own construction to destruction done in by one's own abomination by the hands of creation.

The rats continue to roam the streets as if without sleep to continue to feast on the once deceit feast that lay abundant along the streets while the children weep.