God's Machines

The doctor tries to heal the machines,

The worn out and broken and the obsolete.

Saying, "I have no cure for this suffering,

But there are miles of wreckage and no one to be seen."

A catastrophic failure, the media would scream,

They lie broken in doorways or dumped in the streets.

Rusting in pools, cast off as debris-

May God have mercy on the poor machines.

He works through the night and he works through the day,

The red lights grow dim as they're slipping away.

Your compassion is misspent, his colleagues would say,

But there's no one to say it-they've all gone away.

"Oh I have no training in this discipline,

There's no one to tell me even where to begin."

His head in his hands, he falls to his knees,

Saying, "God have mercy on the poor machines."

A digital voice, a robotic hand,

The circuits and diodes wait for the man.

The air is stifling with corruption and filth,

How could this happen in the world that we built.

A mountain of garbage, a city of trash,

The silence is deafening-it floats down like ash.

One pair of hands 'til the Great Reckoning,

For God will have mercy on His poor machines.