Machine Hands of the Working Man


To the city that talks in our sleep,
disrupts our dreams; pollutes lungs,
vandalizes the air that we breathe,
I beg “bring back the beauty buried beneath
your concrete seams, exhaust haze,
mirrored glass images of steel machines
methodically stealing life away.”

For this gray, dead sea drowning out
the once green life of grass, the trees
it suffocates me, debilitates my will
to find beauty in these structures-
pieces of life manipulated by mortal hand
designed to broadcast the strength,
the brilliant mind of the working man.

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