The Machine

Taking distance from my body after being injured in an accident.

The structure of the machine, slightly twisted out of shape,
dented, scratched, and scraped,
is still implicit in it's integrity.
The inner circuits and workings are shaken, yes,
but not stirred, and it is remembering
the perfection, like all machines, of functionality.
The form, not destroyed, is altered
only slightly, not completley
out of recognition with itself,
but certainly, furthur away from beauty.
There is a hole here,
and a break there,
a twist limb somewhere else,
but only a little leakage.
But the machine is still operable;
still funcitioning, as machines will;
it's motor still driving purpose.
I, though, the operator of said machine
wish only one thing:
that it would not hurt so much.