ghost OF a machine

I walk the thin line

between hers and mine and

read what’s writ upon the walls

a call to arms to be up in arms

of words scrawled and voices

just now recalled and I can

put a voice to these echoes

these pleasing trellises of

fated hands and parting glances

where would I be without this

hand that guides it bides its time

and time will tell if I will clasp

it again this night I cannot

let it ride or wait for my

hand to play itself out in time

it’s not enough to face this

faceless chance that

god might be a switchboard

a non-personified action

cause and effect an empty

fraction of truth

and what does that mean of my

plight that binds the flightless

nights I face down with

uncertainty that she will

ever speak to me

if truth is but a cold machine

and purpose nothing but a cog

will I ever find my place

or ever know where

my coiled spring belongs

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