The Machine

Wandering, looking for wonder, clueless and shoeless machine, travelling over and under, here and there. My skin made of amalgam is shining, catches the sun and reflects errors, misprints, underlining, cases and spaces in texts; characters, symbols and letters, mountains, rivers and trees, big and essential matters that people face and my keys lost out there somewhere by an anonymous lake... God, I will call you unfair wonderful brilliant fake, if omnimeaningful Logos doesn't exist, doesn't mean. Even if wonder is bogus, wander, my writing machine. One of the first English poems, if not the first one, I wrote 2-3 years ago. Still doubt if it's worth posting. Ok, let it live)