The Machine Poem by Russell Aydelotte

Clouded minds,
distorted lies,
confusing thoughts,
controlling sighs,
darkness sighs,
hiding in mist,
disturbed people pass into the abyss,
the epic novel on the shelf, stands alone,
all by itself,
the designers mind is a dangerous gift,
genetically fused with the inventions of man,
darkness looms in every corner,
loosing life with every quarter,
staring at the open gate,
legs go numb as though they're fake,
the human-machine looks away,
he'll never see the light of day,
just a machine nothing more,

Stepping closer to oblivion,
staring down at the devils minion,
loosing conscience before dawn,
the machine looks damaged but not broken,
feel no emotion,
does what he's told,
loosing free will,
to a humans control,
Why? WHY! does the machine still live,
it has no heart, nor no limb,
So how can it be this mysterious machine,
be a creation of someone,
with the likes of me?