Machinery

The machinery works slowly,

weary of its ways,

worn over the years.

The doom machinery is hungry.

It needs fuel,

it needs to be fed.

It runs on vile things,

on everything this world is.

It runs slow for now,

but you are steadily feeding it,

cogs are rattling faster now,

stomping,

beating,

moving.

It rises to its song,

cheerful, but terrible to hear,

it has been fed,

the machinery rises

and works its way inside,

inside our fates again.

Cold and glassy stares on the street,

ignorant of the monstrous machinery

they carry on and on and on,

they can’t see the monstrosity

they created.

And we -

with our eyes full of madness -

we must see

and we must watch

and we cannot act.

Bound by our

all-encompassing fear,

unable to stand up to the machinery,

there are only

silent, internal screams,

the cries of despair at night,

the vortex of insanity

tugging at our minds,

slowly dragging us down.

And will someone stand up,

will someone stand up to the machinery?

And will we silently watch

how they get trampled down

and stomped upon

and slaughtered

while the cold, glassy crowds

stand by and cheer?

Will there ever be a time

when we can stop

the monstrous

machinery?