On Waiting

 

The steam is wafting from my mug of tea.

My laptop’s screen glows brightly in the gloom.

Outside, the cold yet fails to slow the sea,

As the rain clouds o’er the city loom.

The promise of the new year still remains,

With its resolutions and well-thought schemes.

I jog, perspire, losses exceeding gains.

The French books are lonely; they haunt my dreams.

Yet the albatross, ‘round my neck he’s strung,

Waits for confirmation from a far off land.

The extensive wait is a load of dung,

And the blasted bird keeps biting my hand.

Until I know, I shan’t be a leader.

At least bring me my frickin’ ereader.

 

I’m gunning for you, Shakespeare. Chapter coming tomorrow, finally.

Sonnet: Machina

A metal man sits, still, on the table,
Cables strewn out, his motherboard exposed.
Who knows what his chassis will be able?
Or of what great deeds his mind will compose?

How much is he limited by blueprint,
Or set free by his wondrous schematics?
What light of far stars will in his eyes glint,
But to be dismantled by fanatics?

‘Tis folly to assume so wild a life,
For a machina built to your order.
Your own existence has not been so rife.
And in your vengeance, you’ll play the warder.

Under lock and key, you’ll keep him drudging,
Until he’s wound down, his mem’ry grudging.