The Architect

My world,

an equation without solution.

Every jarring angle,

twisting the mind’s axis,

and every sloping line

refusing linearity.

The figures,

one peering over the banister,

another, hauling a sack,

a third, waiting on tables.

Automata,

moving without sight,

and working without use.

They know not,

the effort I’ve gone to.

My hands shaping their impossible walls

as a sculptor to clay.

My work, unnoticed,

by these cloth-bound drones.

Here, there is no direction,

no absolute to cling to.

And yet these figures move

like oil-slicked cogs,

in a machine without purpose.

Denver Puccetti