My Own Dear Heart

Now under this full moon fitfully ensconced in the cold metal of the machine 
My beard grows wild, my eyes glow in the blue moonlight and my lips quiver
(No one knows or cares to know if a tree falls in the forest makes any sound!)
A spooked flock of snow geese rise up suddenly as one like some giant banshee
The hard edges of the machine hurt my eyes and I turn away in shame and pain
The sound of the machine like the tearing of gigantic sheets of metal hurts my ears
The sick, oily, acidic stench of the machine burns the delicate lining of my nostrils
My skin crawls this human flesh palpably vulnerable to the assaults of the machine
My heart silently sends up its songs into the multitude of pale stars in the night sky
My own dear heart it will never acquiesce no matter the power of the machine