Stalactites forming on the machines of yesteryear.
I watch as they drip,
Their deposits falling on deaf ears and into parched mouths.
How thirsty for respite we are.
How drunk we have gotten off false hope and convenience.
Many of our neighbors are still tethered to those machines.
Their spirits calcified by the apocryphal, and their thoughts filtered through a homogenized sieve.
We make many attempts to pull them loose.
To bring them into the light,
if even for a moment where glints of compassion can refract through them.
But few can be carved out of the many layers of programming,
And I know my hands are too tired to dig.
I just listen for the sound of water falling,
And reach for any drop that I can manage to catch.
Cause the water sounds like rusting gears,
And it tastes like a machine that won’t last for long.