The Leaves They Seek
The chirps and the beeps the black machine speaks
Echo a nervousness around me.
Away from the birds, and the leaves they seek,
Away from hammocks under clouds and moss on the north side of trees,
The black machine tries to fill me with voices from countries from people,
With foods impossible to taste and timeless laughs impossible to soak,
With dry ripples of foreign streams
And joys poorly sewn together and doused in alcohol,
Yet still, somehow, never clean.
A network of black machines keep my family, friends, and acquaintances alike,
Alive and immortal,
But to do so, it needs energy,
To do so, it needs me
And I am weak without a dose of birds
And the leaves they seek.
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