Breathing fog

late at night

like an inexhaustible chu chu train

“I think I can.”

a full moon stares at me

while my spinal column of bone

takes another leap

under the eternal light

a skeleton of flesh


into a rusting mortal coil

that springs

screws, wires, and this mechanism of mind

cover more distance than my fat cartilage

ever could

with personal programming

late at night

literature lost and found

and not the junk-food images of some sick psychologist

There are broken clocks

along an imaginary timeline

where time is frozen in another time

too cold to visit

but for my furnace

it burns

deep, in my belly

fueled by energies

fed for what?

the machine doesn’t know

an unending dance

of artificial limbs

a skeleton of steel

running on a momentum of fire

sparked years ago

more sacred than honor

promises we keep to ourselves

the secrets we know in silence

the spirit inside our machine.


2 thoughts on “The Spirit Inside Our Machine

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