Those rusty cogs turn, yawning inside that thick skull; a dying hamster on a creaky wheel. Quietly waiting for the cruel rotations to complete their sedate lap around the globe. Knowing there’s nothing of use to be churned out; still I wait, always, for you. Waiting for that spark to catch; only crumbs of life left. Wondering how much of you is still in there; amongst the rust and fumes. Once it was astounding, fresh with abundant wonder and curiosity; almost dormant now. Stuck mindless motionless. Baby, do you even know your name? Does such a thing even matter anymore? © Natasha Sinclair
Clan Witch & Word Refinery 