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Every night
I strangle the sun
He crumples before me
But every morning
He rises anew
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I'm a sprocket
A moving part
Comrade to the common stapler
Wind me up
Punch my card
Money makes a fine enabler

A thousand miles behind my eyes
I gaze upon this world
Through hazy, distant window panes
The shapes and faces swirl
I hear their call, they know my name
I try for a reply
But voice will not return to me
Neither whimper nor a cry

Every moment is a miracle
A gift from the Creator
Which I capture on my TiVo

Every person is divine
Crafted in His image
That I worship from afar

Every tree a work of art
With its complex inner workings
Or so the textbooks tell me

I can see one from the window in my room

There are two beautiful people
no one would take their eyes off them
on a garden bench they sit, surrounded by flowering plants,
all exquisite orchids, that make the air fragrant,
behold! these lovers hold something in their hands,
sharp like silver ice picks, with a cruel pride
something fashioned from their love it is,
(what is the necessity, I can't think)
but why they wield it carelessly
at the slightest provocation,
hurting each other with every deliberate move?
bleeding from the wounds gets worse
but they get more and more engrossed -
in this blood letting game  like an enraged pair of foes,
their moments of togetherness become a war for supremacy.
I am just a butterfly,
in love with every lovely flower
guilty of flitting from one to the other
call me disloyal,
but never dream of hurting any one
in the name of love like this.
no one explained to me why
human love has taken such a turn.