It’s a machine, life.
Oily, cold, impersonal.
There’s no paternal affection,
no angelic rescuer, no divine plan.
Just a black engine, a tireless generator
of carbon, hydrogen and other gaseous babies.
Age after age, we appear on its assembly line
not knowing how we got here,
never seeing the strange animal
that bore us into existence.
Somewhere in the onyx plenum
the primal motor growls over enslaved
wheels that have churned perpetual spirals
since who knows when.
The grand axle revolves forever,
unimpressed by its prolific issue.
Surely, if the old turbine could imagine eternity
and consider its tiresome chore, it would go mad.
But it imagines nothing.
So on it goes, steaming, yoked
to the momentum of the ages, siring galaxies,
understanding none of it.
The poor beast cannot even pray for its own death.
Published at The Poet’s Billow, November 2014