We, The Sky, The Machine Poem by A.Z. McCoy

The seasonal carousel round and round
Brings us new day
Under the aluminum sky's haze
We raise our hands,
Asking of those we trust,
Those we thought were answers to prayer
But the machine is not so visible,
Piercing down from the starkswirl shade
It begets.
The sun did not glimmer at first
On metallic antennae and guns
But now we see
That the sky lowers swiftly
Outside our control
Unwilling and strung from, ornaments
Are whom we had thought to pray.

All the bounty laid in those words
Capital and market, -isms, but now
Machine's vacuum has done its work.
We find our stories of old
Sands of myth
The hard work, blown imperial table
Scraps back then
Torched from third world mineral, now in dearth
The illusions shattered, like Munch's newly ordered
Scream,
And the globe spins faster, stocks find
Their darkpools to be plucked by the wealth
That bleeds us dry,
A ghost in the machine
That points at false dawn's horizon
We lost all hope
And now the terror comes from inside
Blinded from dreams, broken cups raised
Desire realigned, reordered
Will the sky take back its machine
When we've all become cogs, rusted in gleam?