The engine is weary, tired of all the miles it has seen pass him by.
Its bolts and screws are loose and rusty from all the years of lack of maintenance.
The engine is dying.
Its heart has even skipped a beat or two already.
But he carries on, even though he feels every move being made to crush him down, even though the fuel pumped in is poisonous (a sickening combination of hatred and power).
The engine is dying.
Chocking as he tries to work faster, run faster,
think less, feel less,
humanize, cannibalize.
Consume itself in utter effort.
Escape its outer shell; find another body where he fits perfectly and effortlessly.
The engine is dying.
But he does it ever so silently that life will pass him by.
Ode to a small death (without mourning)
on 10 fevereiro 2011
2 comments:
Sometimes the engine needs to be repaired or replaced altogether altogether!
Este poema está mecanicamente genial!
Tal como aulas de explicações de explicações, é preciso procurar bem nos Classificados onde se vendem este tipo específico de motores (tão complexos e, por isso, tão estupidamente perfeitos).
E olhar de novo para estas palavras que consideras mecanicamente geniais (*blushing*)mete-me algum medo...mas sou corajosa! Não tenho medo de ter medo!
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