This machine that is my life
Brought to movement through rotations, in sighted turning
and follows the calmer of its striking metal pieces.
Both intricate and delicate are its movements,
Driven forward through sweat, tears, and strain
The gears slow, its shining golden pieces losing momentum
And stop.
A piece that does not belong clogs its design.
It does not fit I say.
But they will not listen
“It is for your own good.”
“The gears will move more quickly once it belongs”
I do not know to trust them
But I do not know enough to believe them
And so the piece that does not belong falls
Through the machine to find its place.
Banging against its parts
Scarring its golden pieces
Stripping them of their potential
And destroying its design
So as I knell down beside this machine
And tell it “things will be better this way”
Its sides give and its form slumps over
Each machine must face the same scrutiny
Perhaps its pieces will become restored
In time
I may know