the teeth of
the gears
dreary rusted
shark toothed
in dire need
of replacement
the chain slips
as i fall back
into the cicadian
rhythms of
fourteen years
in solitude
an overhaul
clean regrease
release back
into a constant
state of
bewildered
misunderstanding

beneath the ice
there is gravel
but the lack of
traction makes
the treadbare
tires of circular
logical fallacies
do little more
than send a spray
melted delusion
to form inverted
rainbows into
the misty illusion
this machine of
pitted sorrows
will ever operate
in anything more
than minimalistic
arrays of confusion