Tristan Robert Lange

The Machine Returns

The dread sets in
Like a fractured bone
Fusing in malunion,
The deformity visible.

Hopelessly implacable,
The machine grinds down
Tooth upon rusty tooth;
All flesh is devoured.

Is there any hope?
Is there hope for escape?
Even voices get lost
Within voiceless mouths.

The phantom sight
Reaches its tendrils
Into insight\'s abode;
Nothing can be done.

Supplanting reality
With final judgment
Of the vital spark
Foreseen in gloom,

The sentinels glare
Down imperious paths
Of impending doom;
The machine hums.

There is no escape
For silent sufferers.
No exit is offered
To tormented wailers.

The machine returns,
It keeps on returning,
Grinding with ease
Through bloody corpses.