Thick, crude oil drips in the groove.
You’re a forlorned mechanism moved,
suited to bleakly radiate
and the mind complying fabricates.
-Piss stains, pissed off, pistons-
hit and missed ones and still goin’.
-Gears ground, years drowned, sound fear-
there’s no reason for that here.
The sound of a system reverberating neglect,
haplessly cycle to affect.
The output is a put-off
but instinct can flame a moth.
Combust, rustily spewing distrust,
"Must I be taken into machine…?"
Now an emission upon your admission.
"…as i die a living thing?"
Jonathan May has grown to know his natural surroundings in Appalachian hills of Southeast Ky. He has two published works in the literary journal,"The Cut-Thru Review," and maintains his wonderment in life pursuing a Biology degree at Morehead State University.