Spiritual she is, the machine yearns.
With a roar of a paintbrush she brings life.
A dead canvas moves. Her scars burn.
The art cuts like a blade, dancing delicately through strife.
And in a cold dead place the spiritual machine cries.
Through pretty eyes full of tragedy, she loves the art.
She hates the chaos of the uncaring, cloud filled skies.
Yet, the machine yearns, so beats her heart.
The picture forms, a reflection from the soul.
The chaos subsides for a moment.
The machine touches scarred hand to canvass.
The spiritual machine finds meaning.
@MHuntington7@RedPandaKoala How can you have an informed rebuttal if you ignore people you disagree with? I certainly watch clips of Greenstreet and Mick West being idiots all the time.