cognative

Like clockwork
we fit, my gear
getting to know your every
cog,
ticking away the seconds
in sweet escape
like grains of sand
in an hourglass on
the windowsill--
the sill of a window
into the cold
world, lit by the warm hearts
of people
less automata
more machine
self-replicating to continue
the light they hold
within their
blood;
blood of oil
blood of time
blood of music
music that smacks of a second earned
and a lifetime wasted;
music held within each breath
of the great pull
towards unity
that machine-made man
has come to demand--
every motion calculated like
clockwork,
ticking away the seconds
that I hold you in my arms.

How I wish these weren't just
idle thoughts.

Tick.

Tock.