Well-oiled Machine

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?"