Monday, April 27, 2009

Heart, The Machine

All the things I wish to tell you are the things I'll wish that I never said. The instincts I persisted, in imagination, to evacuate from my head. In the overflow, my steel-capped toe boots filled with storm water, to carry the penance weight of lead. Where as I stepped, ostensibly aware myself, lead your heart to mine to dread. I fed as always in pattern my haste to nurture love when just mirage. Not realising, so exactly, how to soften my own so far is hard. I see with such perception now; heart: the machine; manufacturing and productive, must be oiled and pumped and kept and clean. And in service, as it clocks the hours, docks all the missed acquisitions and insteads. And when emptied of all energy it's just a lump of cold, shiny metal well forged and readies with no assistance it's resignation to join the others in love's landfill garbage gorge.

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