Dreams of Dead Machines

Milk-rust and rose petals,
Flowing in churning streams,
Through ancient forest clearing,
Weaving infinite songs,
Whisper sensual calm,
For a broken War Machine,
Which can no longer recall
(lost so in cartesian spirals),
until sleep once again gleams,
Like a dagger of diamond dreams,
sheathed in soft, sapphire silk.

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4 thoughts on “Dreams of Dead Machines

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