Sean Bugée is an English senior and Mustang Daily poetry contributor.
It was the cold, calculated,
inhuman efficiency of the thing:
A hive of machinery and gears spinning, whirring inexorably,
timed to perfection, that the system remained irrevocably on time
with no regard to the teeming humans
that travelled the anthill tunnels
in service to this demanding god of schedules.
Maybe it was because of this that a step off the platform
was preferable to a finger-twitch
or capsule after capsules.
Perhaps this was why the suited man,
mouth set in a rail-straight line
still dripping with dregs of the void,
chose to offer himself as a sacrifice:
that the brittle, eternal grin of his god
would fall from its face
like specks of rust from sheet metal.