The Machine

This is written in three parts that could be presented independently as standalone poems. Their individual titles are: "A Well Oiled Machine", "Big Old Machine", and "Breakdown".

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Man looks down on his Machine and smiles.
And why not? The peons below all do their part,
mechanically performing any task put before them.
Automatons grinding away until they're used up,
they are cogs in The Great Machine.

Maintenance is key to running The Machine.
Squeaks are silenced with grease;
worn out parts are thrown out, replaced.
Impurities are cleansed and defenses erected.
The Machine must NOT break down.

The Machine is self sustaining:
it manufactures all the parts,
generates all the power,
and produces the lubricants it needs to run.

******************************************************

Gears in The Great Machine go round,
taking with them the years of our lives.
Mindless cogs, replaceable parts of a whole,
grind against one another endlessly.
Inside this mechanical behemoth,
oft neglected machinery deteriorates,
needs to be refurbished, rebuilt, reinvented...
before it breaks.

*****************************************************

--Klaxxon blaring bleeding ears--
--Spinning lights spinning eyes--
--Acrid smoke burns the nose--
--Flying debris crushes bone--

A hulking form looms in the center of the dark concrete room.
Tendrils of smoke rise from one section as it billows from another.
Bent and twisted metal bits lie scattered around.
Lifeless bodies clog the orifices of The Machine.

Out of twisted wreckage crawls one tortured soul.
little does she know it now, but she'll rebuild it all.
Though the sirens pierce her ears and lights stab at her eyes,
She is free of The Machine, for better or for worse:
~The Choice is Yours.