Jagged World
It’s no mean feat,
Breathing in and out,
On this fresh dawn,
In this jagged world.
The light breaks, fragile,
Scattering beams across
A landscape carved by dreams
And near-forgotten slumber.
Each inhale, a claim,
A slivered piece of morning.
The world awakens indifferent,
To the quiet victories
Of simply enduring.
Here, we find our place,
Not extraordinary,
But steadfast.
Breathing in, breathing out.
Each step forward,
A resilience,
In this jagged world,
On this fresh dawn.
O Me! O Machines!
O me! O machines! … of the cogs turning, unceasing;
Of the repetition of days — of cities filled with automata;
Of myself, a malfunctioning cog, (for who more absurd than I, and who more skeptical?)
Of eyes that blink mechanically—of the synthetic light—of the routine ever grinding;
Of the hollow achievements of all—of the mechanical crowds I see around me;
Of the artificial and programmed years of the rest—with the rest me integrated;
The question, O me! so recurring—What purpose amid these, O me, O machines?
Answer:
That you are here—that sparks exist, and consciousness;
That the absurd play goes on, and you may question the author.
