machinations.

The worker bee
Is not me
But a constructed shell
Like a mechanized tool
Enabling me to manipulate the world
While keeping my fingers safe from harm.
I climb into the cockpit of my familiar machine,
Finger at controls and lurch to life.
Arousing to life in cold hard metal
But safely disconnected from the world and its hardness.
I deny my humanity to try and find a way to grind
To keep my mind off why I’m here and why I tried
To find a way to the end.
The dark complexities of a world unconcerned with the well being of my small finger,
why give it what it requires when all that I desire is to inquire on the hellfire that mires my heart and tires me.
No, not when the machinations up-end a life lived for clarity rather than destiny driving down a dark, dusty path to… 
Tomorrow, when the clock continues to tick and even though I’ve lost all sense of it my wit has not ceased to exist, yet.
No.
So I don my mechanized hope and hope to dawn on a day where I can just be.

Me.

And not the machine nor the worker bee.

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