My crusty eyes gaze
listlessly upon the morn.
Nature unable to excite
this dull and heavy head.
Following yon dutiful path
remembered by worn time.
A hunger strikes my mood
stirring painful, pensive questions.
Unhealthy patterns set,
machine-like we humans strive.
Non-existent time our walls
Locking us in mechanical tombs.
Yet, are we not of nature?
Blood pumps our straining veins.
Water yet fills our tears.
Air does exit our impassioned moans.
Why desire robotic perfection?
Tisn�t the coal for our ire.
The flames, which ignite conflagrations,
consume the uniqueness of our lives.
Copyright �Julie Holmes