The Passionate Machine

Adjourning from the splashing oil,
burnt hands
and heavy eyes
I come to the paper to breath
rather than blow my nose.
For even though the cold has beget a cold
my lungs do not breath heavy
as now I can breath freely
with a blank sheet
to fill with the maladies
beget by a hand that shakes,
waiting for the pen to fill
its space;
even when filled
with the promise of standing rigid tomorrow
like a tree cutting its own branches
so the machine can only
sputter at its trunk
in a fit of motionless excess.