his work, his creation

I wrote this poem while listening to “Reptilian” by NIN. His music always gives me certain feelings. This was the outcome. I’m pretty proud. 


he lumbered on

dirty sweat ran salty through his brow

"wipe it off

too late to stop”

too gone to care

his muscles tighten and loosen

as he brings his arms up 

and slams them down again

with the power of a stampede 

of a thousand bulls pumping

thrusting forward

escaping and chasing all at once

he lost the feeling in his legs

long before his feet numbed

the pounding follows the pattern

of his busted heart

as he brings his arms up

and slams them down again

he has no purpose for his actions

other than perfection that he seeks

in himself and his creation

his creation



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