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Out of deep sorrow for the loss of my muse
The machine stops to recapture its stasis
Stolen by the unrequited idea of this mirage,
The scarlet tic toc craves pristine amuse

The pump of the sweet amorous concoction
Tastes **** to the disused forlorn tongue
Maybe the machine leeks this viscous fluid
To purchase desire at the body’s auction

This nature’s request for the suitable mate
While the soul of the failure still remains,
Cranks the contraption most vital gears
As a mismatched tic toc at hearts gate

The betrayal of knowing the truth and never
Ever leaving the past wholly shatters me
The Sunlover wants to bloom when the light
Shines darker than the doubt of forever

That is the heart’s betrayal

Viewing the sunrise through my wasted eyes
unfold as the tears of my broken dreams,
I remember the beauty of my dear beloved
The ultimate ambush to my lonely skies

The hangover of rejection lingers for eternity.
The addictive touch of tenderness I want
While the robot engines cannot cope with it,
The tired heart goes for failed shot infinity

What is this web which I was woven into?
Falling for eight, then nine, bonus ten
Tic toc the clock; pump, pumped the blood
Wild need, whispers required to ensue

And whilst I dig the grave where I shall lend
Haunting me is the ever burning question
Will ever the craving for love be truly done?
Hope is said to never falter, to never end

That is the heart’s betrayal

The never ending brush of desire swirls
A portrait of novel passion; her soft
Features, angelic voice, immaculate lips
And this issue prevails with all the girls

In the mind’s museum, they become a bust
Of hard intangible romantic interests
And as a collection vice, the gallery will not
Stop letting in more miscellany of lust

Appreciating the astral beauty, bemusing  
In the details, worshipping personality,
Requiring such unity to expel the loneliness
This hearts motives forever bruising

The interest in a woman thus take shape
To form the most ethereal phantom
A ghost that results in dreams of icy mist
A myth of warmth, fleeting escape

That is the heart’s betrayal

Once betrothed to be my suitable mate,
Wishes my dream fairy granted me
Far and wide we would venture, brave souls
Only in my fantasy, this surreal bate

Thus, the later ultimatum comes unexpected
When company the moment yearns
This muse’s portrait matures into sorrow
We were genuinely never connected

The cold from this epiphany ardently churns
The blood that petrifies the machine
“She is not the right one,” an echo of misery
Even if elusive, she hurts me; it burns

Passion may come and go, a scar of flare
A tempest of feelings of the unruly kind
The spark is a mystery to solve, misguided
The hurt of a hollow kinship and despair

One day the soul its mate will find, the heart
Will have a home to call in the light
But now the frozen pump in darkness lingers
Waiting the mistake of love to depart

It all goes back to the beginning

And that is the heart’s betrayal
The last poem of my original anthology had to be its namesake. My nature was to love, get rejected, love, lose that person, love again, be rejected, and on and on in an uncontrollable and destructive cycle. It had to stop, so I had to finally understand what was happening to me and translate those impetuses into words. To do so was to acknowledge all the pain and distress of loss and rejection, and for a long time, I just could not do it. Poetry helped me open up and learn about myself. So, this was actually one of the first poems I ever wrote. The sense of cyclicity that flows through and ends the poem makes rereading the whole collection a new experience. All the pieces inside of it have something to do with how the heart, in all its emotional saliences, controls people's every thought, even when we think we are in control. We can love, hate, fear, yearn, and at the same time, not want it to happen. Nonetheless, the heart will betrayal our countenance, our adamancy, our will to resist within different degrees. So, to feature all these ideas sprinkled throughout the anthology into one poem was the best way to end it.
JΛM Jan 2020
Their gears twist and turn, cranking tirelessly
Round the mortal coils of a mellower
Art and content of games played wirelessly.
The game boards are awash with bellowers,
Slighted pawns too bound by echo tubing
Passed around to fortunetellers frightened
By town criers trying to throw heartstrings
Of lovers obsessed with burdens lightened.
"She is trapped and he the trapper," they say.
Shall he free her and see her twist and break?
Maybe that is her choice," but not today,
Or tomorrow or the next," he risks fate.
      Their goal is obvious: parting those two.
      Too bad their love is a folie à deux.
Folie à Deux means madness for two. it's a case in which two people share the same delusion. Like lover's having the same fantasy.
vera Oct 2019
For the last four months, the gears usually churning in my head have halted to an eerie stop. I can't recall anything passed and I can't think of anything new. Dust accumulated on gears big and small making them appear certainly abandoned. It was joined by cobwebs and the spiders who willed them into existence. If I concentrate hard enough I'm sure I will feel them crawling around looking for any sign of life or sustenance. Perhaps these poor creatures are out of luck. I think next, the rust will start to form, and then I will really be in trouble. It will corrode every last piece of metal and take no regard for the way it destroys me. Slowly, the gears will turn orange, and then brown, and then they will cease to exist at all. And that is when I will truly be a lost cause. I guess in a way I'm only getting what I’ve always wanted: for the gears to take a break, to stop churning so mercilessly all the time, to stop working countless possibilities over and over and over again. The most futile effort I’ve ever known. When the gears fall, I think I will be normal. Finally, in correspondence with the people I see around me, I will be just the same. Feigning happiness will not be required, because maybe I will just feel it.
Pyrrha Dec 2018
I love to dance, I love this routine
But her eyes bore into me and I felt like a machine
My parts and gears were aching, turned into the color of rust
I felt ready to combust
I love to dance, I love this routine
But she's made me in to something that isn't quite me
Suddenly I can't recall the once familiar choreography

Her wicked smile bends me and I crumble under the pressure
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Warm up
Listening to intuition
Hands full
Cast as a wallpaper
Time traveler
Witnessed the disgrace
Can’t explain more
Stereotype, eccentric?
Towards a familiar face
Being a neophyte
With a marijuana life
Switching gears into auto pilot
Floated with no gravity
Clarity, that makes no sense
Unseen, unheard but close to heart

A selection bias
Let the Adrenaline rush
Dream or nightmare?
Claws sharper than Scalpel
Waiting for a response
“Yes” is the answer
Proof of life
Night with an open eyes.
God’s mistake
All come with an expiration date.
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
Useless Stardust Nov 2017
running, running, running gears,
quickly, smoothly,
running, running, running gears,
all towards the same goal,
running, running, running,
pop,
one jumps out, the gears continue,
running, running, running gears,
it lays there, useless,
running, running.. running...
it joins the pile as the gears continue
running... running.....
Scrap Metal Sep 2017
At a time where it seems so very hard, for me just to feel alive.
all I wanted then, was to drive
As ridiculous as it seems
it was the stuff of my dreams
all I needed was my car and vacant 4am roads.

Going through the gears, as if they were my final years
piston tatted-ring finger; hand firmly wrapped around the wheel
braking late into the corner
locking up the alloy steel wheels on my automobile  
the tires squeal
waltzing them back into rotation as I find the threshold
clutch in
twist of the leg at the hip, I blip the throttle with my heel
down into second
one swift movement
un-burnt fuel erupts in the pipes.
blitzing through the off ramp
keeping it tight, clipping the manhole cover in the apex
pedal flat coming out, bounce the tach' as its not worth the upshift
pitch the car into the long sweeping overpass bend
the back end kicks out on decel'
counter steer and slam the accelerator back into the bare metal floor
front wheels clawing in the direction that I please
keys slapping my knees
straighten out and I ease her back home.

reverse down into the narrow; dimly lit garage
as I climb out, I can feel the heat radiating from the machine I built
hot oil ticking as it finds its way back to the pan
I stand and watch my car slowly disappear behind the garage door
it is but another night survived
for both of us.
imagine your single most favorite thing to do is extremely dangerous, illegal and selfish.
Isaac Godfrey May 2017
Steam, Heat, sweltering mechanisms at work,
cogs, collected, combined, creating copper cirque,
wheels rotating, furnaces incinerating, gears moving at busy speed,
circulating, building, crafting, machines making what we need,
Tubes pump Scarlet Liquid, contraptions clank and ratchets clink,
as I ponder - what all the parts do, one requires to think.
Parts seldom give up, nor contraptions shirking,
but this wonder, marvel, machine, is the human body working.
A poem I wrote with not much though until I contemplated just how many mechanisms we conceal - just within ourselves! Then I really got thinking, Constantly, without end, our furnaces, our kilns, our production lines, never stop building what we need, there's a whole foundry within us, a factory, contained within.
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