Slower machines know the rule:
never do something you are good at
if you do not enjoy it.
And we, we these people,
are slow machines.
Our understandings
become historical
before they leave our mouths.
Our walks look more like ambles
to the preamblers
who stuck it out and became
the fastest show in space.
It might be nice to be light,
to be a slice of the night,
there and back thrice
at the instant of bright.
Give me this slight
angle of blight
where the not going
becomes a purpose
in which the dying of the fright
is synonymous with lying down
to sleep forever tight.
Roman Ryan 