

The MachineThe machine: it breathes and feeds and moves; Electric pulse, metallic cold; The hiss of breath, through molded grooves; Veins of plastic: blood-red bold.The Machine
The static smile of switches girn; The eyes are dull; then flash and blink; The whirring mind that will not turn; The pathetic mouth that cannot drink.
Laughter is a thing unknown; Sparkless, blunt vitality. Feelings that cannot be grown; No love can this thing give to me.
No voice is there to ask me why; How easily it makes me cry. In silent torment; here you lie. Kill this thing,


Bark lovingI long to touch your tendril arms; Tender-filled, and bast-kind eyes; Listen to your whispered charms; And kiss you as the soft wind sighs. Though we can but barely meet; Across this leafy place, so cold; Devoid of love, this lonesome street; The barrenness of places old. But with this heart of oak of mine; Our roots shall grow through earth and stone; And there shall meet and close entwine; Nevermore a time alone. I long to share a gentle touch; My doru love; I love so much.Bark loving


Of Devotion and DespairI don't know why; Your life touched me so. And yet I took it; And folded it away; And there it lay; And lies there still. From time to time; I think of you: A stranger across many seas; Who I never knew. To fill your jug from the well; Or perish with your children: Walked for miles; And miles; Of dusty miles. And falling: Spilled all you had. Drained away. And with it hope. And in your despair; And shame; And utter helplessness; Hung yourself.Of Devotion and Despair
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I'm allergic to death. Whenever I come into contact with it, I become all pale and sickly looking.
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