I've been trying to write profound intellectual poetry based on the ideas in my Greek tragedy class, but instead I wrote this, about going around in the dryer...
The God in the Machine
Warmth, and motion,
and a porthole to show
just one round slice
of everything outside.
Who with all the
power in the world would not
finally choose to rest where all is clean--
and drift, and spin?
1 comment:
I think, a masterpiece!
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