My Inner Machinery

Misery is the steady march of a cold wind.
Walking together I thought we might be friends,
But it was just throwing me to the bears.

I wish I was still a child in my mother’s arms.
I imagine the memories of my ancestors. I imagine another world.
But I live with the godfathers of modern civilization.

My friends would say that I am long winded.
I am a tightly wound music box,
My inner machinery pulling itself apart.

One way or another I am carried over the hill.
The smell of fear and the song of a canary.
Now you really know me.

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