The iron gear's teeth,
Like that of a wise wolf,
Grip and pull at it's brothers,
Leading them down an old road,
That circles back around to yesterday.

The man who marvels at the path,
On a warm winter evening,
Doesn't see anything but forward.
Man is not a wolf.
Gears turn in place.
Forward leads nowhere,
Within the Machine

A slow ache,
that comes as the price of solitude,
doesn't sound so bad
when you first make the deal.
“I'll take it!”
Whatever the cost.
All that matters is that my heart
is now solid plaster
and the rest is machine.