Mass-Produced Man

If man is a machine,
Mass-produced, he feels just like
Somebody else.
Springs, when pushed upon,
Become depressed.
Metal bars, when cycle stressed
Embrittle and break.
Cogs are moving busily,
But never getting anywhere.
Iron’s tough, but decays and rusts.
It ends in acidic cynicism:
“Nails get hammered,
and screws get screwed.”
Perhaps it’s all so ugly and wrong
Because man is actually a tree
And can’t find root
In shifting sands’
Modernity.
What he needs is
Sturdy stoil, streams of water,
and Eternity’s light.

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