cogs. 

“We are cogs in the great machine”

(He whispered, trailing my thighs with his smile)

“We are churning right to our seams”

(He persists, anchoring me toward his core) 

“We are becoming the pessimists that we – 

Oh how we all scampered from”.

* * * 

I can see it in his eyes, the ghosts from wars long won. 

It will never be compromise enough 

that he had not fallen. 

And

In this life’s divinations 

There are no revelations 

Yet we reach to tabloid papers biblically 

For those horoscopes scripted “logically”

Reaching to such false entities 

We chant –

Something good is sure to come!

Months and months and wage and wage 

No power to stifle the endless game 

And so on 

And so on

So on…

* * * 

“We are cogs in the great machine” 

His voice resonates so clearly now 

The dread of it all, felt almost familiar 

As though it had shrouded me my entire existence 

As familial as a lullaby 

But alas – a murmur 

A beating in my chest moves me

He looks at me, waiting 

I reply, 

We are cogs in the great machine, 

that I have 

the hands 

to 

switch

off.

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