The Machine

The gears turn, move, and grind as whistles scream.
A piston pumps, a valve releases steam.
The levers flip and fall into their place,
A low drone and frantic tick sets the pace.
Off, on, and off, and on, ever steady light,
The creaks and roar extends into the night.
Never ceasing, oil flows within black veins,
Each part continues, ignoring the strain.

A timecard says "Deadline's due! Rush, rush, rush!
No time to think! Each piece must push, push, push!"
So the machine drives on, groaning with stress.
As one gear completes its job, seeking rest,
More work is found, no time to stop or wait;
One second pause and production is late.
Well oiled and greased, its job of most import,
But grease runs dry, its supply always short.

And so, the gear, it turns roughly grinding,
Its hard labor only serves at binding
It to its task and then the next big job;
Its peace and rest continually robbed.
The gear's one hope, to do a job well done,
And when complete, to gain perhaps just one
Praise or good report, some sort of reward.
Could not his hard labor sweet rest afford?

But there is no answer and so it must
Continue working and collecting rust.
After all, is this not why it was made?
"Work, work, work!" so the authorities bade.
Those who knew said this was its lot in life;
If it would just comply, there'd be less strife.
There'd be no more questions, no more yearning,
No more inside would his heart be burning.

And so the gear pushed on, working away,
Never stopping through each night and each day.
And it learned through its work that they were right,
If it would only work with half its might,
And continue this way day after day,
All of its concerns would soon slip away.
Although no longer did its work compare
To some high gauge, no longer did it care.

And so, like this, the rust built up much more.
The black oil grew more bitter than before,
Like the apathy that with it set in,
It's not what it was hoped. As the gears spin
Quickly round, each piece fitted in its place,
You'd think it was some sort of frantic race.
The truth is that each part had quit trying,
At its best, the gear was just complying.

But this was not enough, for rust corrodes.
It soon lost its strength to carry its load.
As it struggled and spread itself so thin,
It knew this was a fight it could not win.
And so a new kind of fear began,
One that was impossible to withstand.
Struggling, failing, was it to end this way?
When from nowhere, it heard a soft voice say:

"Take some time, take some rest, come work for Me,
And when again you are stressed, here I'll be,
Ready to give you pause from your labor,
A time to stop, to think, and to savor
The sweet reward of your effort and work.
I'll clean your rust and wipe away your dirt.
You'll need no more of this machine's foul grease;
The oil I give will bring you life and peace."

To hear this voice brought such a great surprise,
The gear at once stopped, just to hear the cries
Of those above, "Back to work! You can't stop!"
And back it went, it knew that those up top
It must obey. But the voice lingered still;
The gear thought that if it could just fulfill
What it said, then all his hopes would come true.
But hopes must die, the gear already knew.

For hopes, so high, brought nothing more than pain,
All hope for something more was in vain.
Again it worked, struggling just to survive.
Longing for some way it might be revived,
When once again the voice seemed to ring out:
"I understand why you fear and you doubt.
For in that life, hopes only disappoint
And can't do more, when to life there's no point.

"But I offer something new, something more,
I offer life that is worth living for.
Not without work or simply effortless,
But I will strengthen you and ease your stress.
And this work will not go on forever,
It will soon end, I just ask you to share
For a little time in its completion,
And to rejoice with Me when it is done."

Once again, the gear continued working,
But he couldn't keep his heart from hurting.
The voice had said all that he longed to hear,
But still the gear was paralyzed with fear.
If it quit its work here, its life would end;
For life, to this machine it must depend,
And it had need of him, the gear must fill
Its place, so the machine could keep on still.

But the gear knew that with each passing day,
More rust built up, along with more decay;
And like this it would soon be obsolete.
All it ever wanted was to complete
Its job and know it played a precious part
In something that's of worth. And still his heart
Burned within, and that soft voice lingered still,
Until he cried, "Who are you?! Is this real?!?"

To which the voice alone replied, "I am,
Come with Me." And with that the gear began
To leave the only place he'd ever known
For somewhere new, yet he was not alone.
But as he left, a spark of fear returned
Of being caught, would the machine not learn
Of his escape? But a new peace replaced
His fear, as another gear filled his space.

And like this, the machine, without a pause,
Pursued its frantic work without a cause.
The pistons pumped, gears turned and levers clicked.
Oil flowed, the whistles screamed, the timer ticked.
And like this, the tired gear was released
Into new life. The machine never ceased;
Grinding the gears away into the night,
While the old gear rolled out into the light.