The Machine
An imperfect world
From a distance so pale and beautiful
From up close so deceiving
So corrupt
So painful.
From an angle so true
So promising
So pure.
Reality a lie,
Harsh alibi
differing from child to adult, from
Old man to war vet.
One person wins the lottery
while another curls up in a box at night
and somewhere far away
someone cries themselves to sleep
while someone else a few blocks over
smiles in the embrace of their lover.
So perfectly imperfect, ever changing like a story
one culture rises, then falls, and like a phoenix, births another
much the same as one's character through the hardships of life.
What would I change?
Not a damn thing.
Things aren't perfect
and they never will be
but they're good enough
good enough indeed
to suit the starving and the rich alike
because "through the fires of hell
great men are forged"
and as each great human falls from grace
so another rises from the dust.
What would I change?
Not a damn thing.
Things aren't perfect,
and they never will be,
but they're good enough
good enough indeed for things to change in their own due time
as they always will
as the earth always turns
as the light always flows
as the dark always dances
as the moon always forms.