broken machines

nothing can ruin
a storm
of insular misery
reflected
by the dark gray skies above
like the incessant honking
of the neighbor’s car

the rusted implement of
more than one wreck
with an oversensitive alarm
that grates
on the oversensitive fool
that is trying to have a good cry
in the emptiness of her passing

a hellspite metronome
keeping time
with the crashing waves
the seaweed wrapped
around my deadened limbs beeping an undercurrent
to my pounding pulse

the sound of disruption
in the midst of reflection
with the concurrent
rage sorrow symphony
turned to eleven
in the wake
of loneliness so deep

it howls
a mocking tone
to my howls
of self loathing
until the battery dies
in one of our
broken machines

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