it was a clutter of emotions;
he could not believe
the trash he found
buried within

it was a passion, he claimed;
he could not comprehend
when his love had been
corrupted, wrinkled up:
dead.

his fingers are factories
not needle and thread, no
intricate details, merely a mass
of plastic things

he dubs them "affection"
he dubs them "grandiose"
he dubs them "products of his heart"
he dubs them "masterpieces"

yet, he grits his teeth every time
he welcomes people to his dreams
yet they are machinery, made
to entertain, not touch
your hearts

when was love
about profit anyway?
numbers numbed his perception
a mere shell of
yesterday's potential

he shuts down his mind;
a product of his own undoing

....