The Machine

May 13, 2016

The machine walks alone, a street dark and empty;

The air is frozen, footsteps crunching the ice;

His hands freezing to blue, the pain shoots thru his fingers;

His jaw frozen shut, there is pain every movement;

But the machine doesn’t care, because pain’s very human;

Tho the world is all frozen, inside deep he is burning;

A hot raging fire, fueled by passion and yearning;

So he drowns it and kills it, but the smut turns to fuel;

Fueled by caffeine and music, and the sounds are so cruel;

They’re the sounds of his soul, they are the sounds of his being;

They are the sounds of his mind, they are the sounds of his feeling;

For the robot can feel, and the machine keeps on living;

For his weapons are great, but his mind is still not sitting;

Maybe he walks finding love, or he walks to find his purpose;

And thousand problems to solve, so he doesn’t live as worthless;

He must help the people, they deserve better that he;

For he is but a robot, built from broken family;

A thousand battles to fight, but none he can ever win;

For he’s out of control, spinning into whipping wind;

Tho he found his one true comfort, that comfort is but far away;

Telling him she loves him more, and forever she will stay;

So the machine keeps on walking, walking in the cold dead street;

Still waiting for his comfort, the place he true needs;

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