Requiem for a Cog
There was no room. There was no place.
Every gear must turn in line, each cog
coruscates with dull, pewter shine.
No room for watercolor memories or
the promise of spring. No place for
wandering highways or the birth of
a king. A hammer lies in wait behind
each perfect pillar, poised to strike at
the echo of La Vie Bohème and the
naked bather in the river. No room
for nature’s inefficient asymmetry,
no place for dreams beyond industry.
Once upon a time a cog fancied itself
a shooting star, trading its pewter shine
for a bustling bazaar. It climbed too far
from the others beneath, and the Great
Machine picked its bones from its teeth.