The machine breaks down.
Feels something is wrong, slows and then stops.
It’s shade covered ground
once moved with intention, now painted on top.
The fixers reach in,
Talk fast and sigh slow, shake heads and connections -
“We now can begin,
pull plugs and these wires, and damn the directions.”
The machine goes to sleep.
“Of what does it dream?” they say in hushed voices,
“Of gearing, of oil, Electrical sheep?” the questions grow stronger
It dreams of it’s purpose, of what it once did but now can no longer,
trapped by design and long-ago choices.
The machine wakes up.
The fixers are finished.
The machine starts moving once more.
and out of an almond eye:
inevitably it moves
finding its groove
because the truth is
he moves this
like the tin man who misplaced his heart
the fixers didn't know of this living part
the headache and earache, the backache and earthquake
it was an easy mishap to overlook this man's will
but no one can stop this machine from being real
though necessary
the pulled plugs and those wires
he fought the adversaries
with the defiance he acquired
see this machine never played by the rules that were planned for him
what i mean is that he's already paid for those modules that brand him
and though he takes what he must from the fixers with hushed voices
make no mistake, he's going for bust because he knows the answer is in his choices
and he chooses to follow the shapes of his shadows
inexorably moving forward into his bright tomorrows
intrinsically in pursuit of that purpose, of that intention
where man and machine finally find some salvation
written by francis allen and yours truly
