The Machine

An imperfect world

From a distance so pale and beautiful

From up close so deceiving

So corrupt

So painful.

From an angle so true

So promising

So pure.

Reality a lie,

Harsh alibi

differing from child to adult, from

Old man to war vet.

One person wins the lottery

while another curls up in a box at night

and somewhere far away

someone cries themselves to sleep

while someone else a few blocks over

smiles in the embrace of their lover.

So perfectly imperfect, ever changing like a story

one culture rises, then falls, and like a phoenix, births another

much the same as one's character through the hardships of life.

What would I change?

Not a damn thing.

Things aren't perfect

and they never will be

but they're good enough

good enough indeed

to suit the starving and the rich alike

because "through the fires of hell

great men are forged"

and as each great human falls from grace

so another rises from the dust.

What would I change?

Not a damn thing.

Things aren't perfect,

and they never will be,

but they're good enough 

good enough indeed for things to change in their own due time

as they always will

as the earth always turns

as the light always flows

as the dark always dances

as the moon always forms.