A feeling as inevitable as the return of the clouds,
or the ebb and flow of the tide, rolls over me.
Brought in by the smell of ozone just before the first drops of rain fall;
their quiet sound shattering the peace of the soil microcosm,
mirroring the dissonance within my own being.

As I sit on the porch of a dilapidated house I can feeling my gears turn,
mismatched cogs grinding up thoughts and emotions,
Their essence fueling the furnace bellow,
an archaic mechanism that was built to burn.

Somewhere along the line it was caused by a mistake in the design,
one purely chemical and utterly inevitable.
Every engineer flummoxed by the nonsensical complexity,
a system without rhyme or rhythm,
held together by some chance of fate.

Winter is the only relief for the endless heat generated within,
gradually cooling parts to the point where one can fiddle within,
each moving part worn thin, lasting just long enough...
Temporary fixes suffice, while on this endless search for a true solution,
a pair of kind thoughtful hands tempered enough to stand the heat,
one perspicacious enough to rearrange the parts within,
a new design that will cease the burning.

The essence of my being has long since been locked deep within,
my body is both the cage an a coffin I some day hope to escape.
It's an inevitable struggle I must face each day,
looking for someone who will find me and take me by the hand,
pulling my soul up out of the depths of it's mechanical prison.