Incessant Lathe – a poem

Heaven’s lathe will turn regardless, wheel

Of motion that crushes, contorts and confounds

Where all materials are bent, twisted by dreams

Held amongst dry leaves written upon in olden days,

A story told in high machinery and smithing of soul.


Shadows of memory gather, heavier than air

Far more deadly in every way, bar a lack,

Significance of the cosmic clock mechanisms

Beaten into every fibre of being, expectancy

Driving that motion turning, turning, incessantly.



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