Fading Machine

August 25, 2017

Great waves on the subtle ocean
Calm on the praire tide
Newfoundland in the dusk
I don't know what's happening
Everything in my head
Driving up the futile road
Into the eye of the storm
A black face, his eyes shut
Pupils lit up white
And though I'm dreaming it
Thoughts consumed by one thing
My mind will never turn off
An android at conception
Soon I will be overcome
I will split at the section
Drifting apart in two
Half in the world
And half is not
That half swimming about
In the lowest darkest currents
Of what I really am
Just a shot up in the rain
Run of the mill
Nothing as can be
Ragged half-breathing something
Contraption wound at birth
Tossed out into the storm
To live mechanically
Until the spinner stops
Until I run out of air
Until I cease
So I fade into the grove of trees and keep living
I crawl behind those leaves who are still listening
I form part of that wave which is still curling
I am nothing, if only unfurling

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