Steampunk
At the center of beautiful women
who do not love us
burns a white flame.
We are machines
that consume and desire and wont
for such abiding loneliness
that to invite it
is to extract blossoms from the rain.
I am the elevator that opens
on each floor in the metal
hotel of your heart.
And on hearing the laughter
down the endless
hallway, I press a button
and slide shut my doors.
.
by Darren Morris
from The 2River View
Spring 2015