Pocket storm

I harbor a darkness
Of indefinite malice and terror

Beneath this calm confident facade,
Lies a raging storm
And in fear I find that the heart of the storm
The cold machine and the fiery beast
Seeking escape to harm

They are imprisoned prisoner
A duality of one aspect
Restrained by the creator
In me it seems
I share a kindred soul with god and a hole with the midnight

Not brought forth from carnal desires
But from distilled frustration
Refined in the factory of solitude
Producing pure, undiluted rage
The machine thus rose
Silent icy fury
Barely contained

The beast though joined the machine
It did come from sin it seems
Though did the other one not as well
Not shown, but still there?

 The beast however is another matter
For it is far tricker contrasting to the machine
It is corrupt , and seeks corruption
Wearing a mask of harmlessness
Though I know it is anything but
it smolders and burns
Removing restriction and inhibition alike
For with the heat of the burn comes
the feeling of the heat of passion

Passion appeals to the creator
So he allows
But the passion is not true
More so just lust
The imagination serves the intoxicating brew
The creator accepts, and that is the mistake

Thus the two grow
Abiding their times
To make known
To turn fully dark

Were it not for another
A simple other
The creator grew weary
Laboring to guard the pit
The beast snored
But the machine soared
The machine tried to kill the creator
Filled with blinding anger for its creation

The poet arrives
Strange in his way
Watching, gazing, he rests a moment
For this moment’s journey was long in partaking
The creator, dying slowly
Reaches
The poet says
Let there be truth

The machine is drained by the poet
Who has studied its workings
The beast grows weak
For its passion is consumed
For its literary material
The creator sees, does not believe

The poet smiled
And saved the dreams