Rusted arms,
Connect with ageing joints,
To turn pointless cogs,
In a once well-oiled machine,
That now grinds itself to dust,
Under sheer pressure of self-inflicted weights,
Held in place by still sturdy chains,
Each link strained,
As the creaking oak of the axle screams,
Splintering in discordant cries,
Until finally,
Shattered dreams manifest themselves,
The ancient timber splits,
The centrepiece collapses,
Bringing down the entire contraption,
Flawed design finally takes its toll,
Tearing each pitiful component from its place,
The walls crumble,
Light falls on the remains,
Of a doomed creation,
Imagined,
But imperfectly realised.