Machine Poem by Timmy Angel Naylor

Ours, the infantile Machine,
Will crawl through craned black landscapes
Craving death and leaving this:
The dashed-down grindled grit that
Pits at bitter sweepings with warm blood
To mock the fronds of softness.
Ours, the mangled destiny that
Gropes, with torn-spilt talons,
Gloom-split grief.
But yet for all my bleak imagery,
Please, set yourselves non too safe:
People lank of shallow mind and gutless,
Shorn of gallowed soul,
Who sip secure with
Well - deceiving windows,
Do not chance to glaze veracious
Where, through bones of broken suburbs
Blow your harrowed
Hollowed husks of ravaged children.