Flywheel
It is said that mankind is machinery
That people are but pieces and parts
Cogs and coils in some colossal cosmic clockwork
Our directions and diction dictated by dials
Our glee spun by gears, released from great gaskets
And our pride pumped in pistons
There are buttons for our bravery
Cranks for our cowardice
And timers and tripwires to trigger our tempers
We slip secrets beneath the skirting
Store our souls in secure sockets
But we have characteristics too complex for blueprints
And our wires all waver with a heavy human heartbeat
There are no light switches for love and for lust
They linger through lifetimes, never flicked on and off
There are no gears for grief, no sprockets for sorrow
Those are processed in pieces, never emptied entirely
But when sockets split, spinning schisms into skirtings
And our cogs become clogged, congested with compassion
When our engines expire, our pistons all perish, humanity remains
Our souls and our spirits, our sense and our sanity
Linger far longer than links, lights, and locks
And it's then we remember, once our steel's lost its sheen
Mankind may be machinery, but man makes the machine