A brain that’s been tapped and tinkered is suddenly transformed.

A soul that’s been prodded and pulled is carefully put back in its place.

Thoughts have been dusted and polished and put away in their boxes.

A gut that been untangled, unknotted, instead now tied in a bow.

 

Then the cogs in the wheel turn again.

 

A scar to the brain has split.

The crack in its box is on display.

A scratch on the soul wants remedy.

And the bow has been pulled undone.

 

Agitation covers the gloss.

Murky thoughts cloud the vison.

The focus slips out the window,

 And I’m left with the bleak.

 

So I read over those words you wrote down.

I remember those lines that you told me.

It’s a scab that wants scratching,

A boil that wants bursting.

 

The cogs get treated, tankard and oiled.

They turn back the other way again.