By Michael Cunliffe
The Machine does not care about you. You are small fruit hanging amid a sea of vines in a vineyard the Machine knows will wither in Autumn. The Machine will not put an arm around you. The Machine will try to fool you into thinking it cares, and the moment you are fooled you fall, and begin the transformation into withered fruit, old and stale and small, fermenting on the vineyard floor, transforming into compost for the soil of a vineyard the Machine will dig up and entirely replant next Springtime. Do not be fooled, the Machine does not care about this process or you.
© All poetic works displayed on this website are copyright of the original author. All rights reserved.