The Machine

It is seen, but unpredictable -> Like lightening, it can never be touched until it has stricken, when the mind settles its anticipation, but the heart is burned to the core. It severs, it wounds, it rebuilds; yet somehow, it gives the gears the power to move and it has the strength, now, for its purpose…but the machine refuses to budge; why? And so it stands, powerful without power, willful without will, a useless thing without purpose, though it burns in the rapidly turning wheels within it. The light shines beautifully and everywhere, but it is motionless and a shadow far longer than its being stretches through the floor. It screams “What do you want? Take it!” A silent voice cries, “Come!” and the figure moves, unable to disobey. And as it moves, each part of the shadow grows another head, another thought, another voice, until it is a thousand in one, with a booming cry-> They scream, “What do you want? Take it!” But it is not the power of a thousand inward shadows that forces the figure forward. Eyes downcast and body stiff, it follows the voice, not willing to take notice of anything but its beauty, its ugliness, its weakness, and its strength. And it is a twisted thing. Yet when the voice leaves, it echoes against the invisible shield placed around the being. So it is alone, and without a master, the rusted gears turn left, and finally, it takes in the air and tilts her head towards the sun that stands at its highest point. And its swollen throat croaks, “Why?” and she turns away.