the escalator cried and moaned
like a mother who lost her son,
and the sound grew
on and on.
machines lack inspiration
and even knowing this, human beings become them:
ungreased, rusty-hinged, slaves to routine,
even the palest of us turn brownish-green.
i’m already dark-skinned
but pray every night that i won’t turn
into that extreme…
groaning every morning as the world steps on my face,
continually working knowing
i’ll never leave that place.
i’m more like a roller coaster,
going up and down, curving around at times
and eliciting reactions from others in the form of
screams and smiles of laughter.
no crying, just laughter,
coming straight from the belly
and sprinting out of tear-filled eyes.
i cry and moan inside, but pray that i’ll
never be that dead inside one day.
one day this speculation won’t even matter anymore.
when i don’t have to hear weeping machines no more,
mourning over lost sons who succumbed
to the machine of complacency,
rolling back and forth and never walking
with a sense of
to live out dreams.