Tending Machines

In a world of sound she sits

Bombarded by machines

That are unceasing, but lets slip

All care, attention, eases her grip

On the merely mechanical,

Gives in to dreams.


Through darkening funnels she must climb

Away from dust and sound

Towards desire, away from pound

And clamour of pistons, it is time

For clouds across those thin membranes:

The screens desire is painted on


Riot of colour, images, refrains

Blossoms behind them and is gone.


These are unsubstantial things,

These dreams,

They close and die at each alarm

Stained with the gunning of machines

Designed for harm.

And waking, she will find that things

At the threshold are wearing thin;

In sleep all grace is filtered out

By dust and drudgery,

Din and doubt.


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