Gears

Warehouse, office, site: The grand ball is open to all

Still early — far too early.
Yet already the hour.
Eyes open.

A flicker of tension settles in:
Brownish liquid, greyish smoke.
Yellowing a little more,
guts already corroded to the core.

Plunging into the horde,
sitting down in line.
Warehouse, office, site:
The grand ball is open to all.

For you, my sweet,
my dear source of sustenance.
We tame each other,
often out of spite.

But not only that:
We pretend, we bend, we whisper,
and we choose a culprit to hate.

Because one must take a bite,
On whom else to spill
this bile so tight?

And yet, it is our own sabotage
That holes our boats.
Without forgetting to admit
that it is sometimes comfortable
to slip into the gears.

As long as it works.
But sometimes, it breaks.
When the magic of the beginning
fades away under the bad breath of the morning.

The worst are the slave factories:
Velvet bars.
Golden façades.
Smoking mirrors.

When the needle sleepwalks,
the hourglass that still
pours out its nimble dust.

Is it fear —
To see the hour turn clear?
Or the fear of being frozen,
by ignorance, unchosen?

Is it too late?
Already too late?