The Mechanical Soul

My coal heart paints pictures and draws lines

Flipped around like a gymnast,

By dirty stranger’s hands

My long neck strangled by fingers

 

My heart shrinks with each passing day

As it slowly wears away

Until gentle fingers redeem,

My heart to its former glory

 

A single arm on which I cling

A single head on which to do head-stands

An ability to erase mistakes,

That causes my thick white hair to turn black

 

I soil fingers

And taint marble-white sheets

With streaks of lonesome gray

Like the coal mines do to clean white faces

 

I am a priest’s staff

A tool of creation and wisdom

I am also the devil’s trident

Ready to send havoc out onto the world