The Lowest High, The Highest Low, and the Mad Rhythm

Some of my poems tend to be a short story shrouded in a verbose sense of writing. This one takes place around 1904

The Lowest High, The Highest Low, and the Mad Rhythm

By. Silvan

The gears wind back the steel,

Subordinates rithe together and feel

The kiss of unity mechanical.

Never had any of them tried to stop

To ease the burden piled on top

For in failure they might an ally drop

And unearth the underlying tyrannical.

Spinning into the lakeside at my left,

The roar of the engine gives its last breath,

Taking the power from my hands,

Melding it upon a smear of lands

That fast approach my eyes.

Not a cry.

Melody fills my ears betrothed.

Cold sweetened drops enrolled,

A bed for my new home I’ve discovered,

Here in these empty parts of the world undiscovered

Are my metal friend and I, smothered.

Louvered doors on either side,

Admitting admittance,

One with pride,

One with evil riddance.

Both pulsing with a synergy.

Neither makes sense.

Author's Note

Interpretations?