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The Great Machine

The nurse, she dances with a soldier around the bed.
Her hand mistakes his rifle for the saviour of the dead,
A whisper in his ear,
‘What is life without the fear?’
Her arms will prove a cradle for the man to rest his head.
 
The doctor, he struggles with the scalpel and the cord.
The devil to his left knows how freely lives are bought,
Each man is but a mark,
For which no heralds hark,
So deliver him in to the hand that cares not why he fought.
 
The preacher, he lets his presence chorus through the room.
His hand constructs a silence while his book prepares a tomb,
Fear will claim the teller,
As the truth evades the seller,
For the Hopeless and Heroic he knows that death is surely soon.
 
The mourner, she pays a man to figure out a date.
Her eyes are shattered headlights but her hands are clasped in wait.
She is dressed in apprehension,
Draped with all her best pretensions,
She prays for freedom, swift and sharp, and knows the hour is late.
 
The victim, I suffer as a bullet in a gun.
My fighting nears its end and yet no battle has been won.
The saints will turn their backs
On a heathen painted black,
I rest inside the great machine and know my job is done.

Other works by Nick Martin...



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