Robota

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A flesh machine  
on mind control
 
asleep at the wheel  
of an earthbound fall
 
a maladaptive daydream
rolling the stone
on the road to Rome:
 
gods from the cogs  
of a clock
                  farm
                           ~race
 
some shadow work  
(for a cut)
then playing in the blood,
 
a saving grace
with a long game face
 
an enduring faith  
in short-term fealty
(and memory)
tallying salt:
 
a broken legion
made in the shade
of blackened towers
on billable hours
 
a deep clean creep
down in-between
the dark night of the soul
and some rabbit hole dream
 
a clockwise drive
from the forgotten edge
of unrequited void
 
a tare-weight treason
bearing false (wheat)  
witness-
 
where the serpent
climbs the cross
in wayward spent
 
where the grave dirt wage
is a slow, steady wade
on a star-crossed brake
 
where the storm of the         mind
numbers          inside
a one-track         eye
 
working from the shadows  
playing in the road
(and laying in the cut)
 
a soul machine
for flesh control
 
awake in the weal
of a skyline call ~
 
delayed gratification
among the stones
on a long ride          home.