The Machine

He lays the blueprint on the table
sorting through the pieces of his machine.
Some of them are familiar,
and he knows their function well.
Some are the same as older models,
and how they work has been told to him.
It makes sense, and he can see how.
Some are foreign to him,
pieces he's never seen before
their genesis, a mystery to him.
How they work, he may never know.

Timidly, he lines up the parts.
They don't match the map.
Some are so different he worries
he may never make them fit.
He's had the blueprint for years
but the pieces are always changing
and this machine is just so very complicated.
He attaches some, puts others away
saves some for a later time
when he can make their fit.

The whole becomes clear slowly.
It's not what he expects.
Not what he wants.
It's ugly, dark and doesn't work right.
There are pieces missing, important ones.
Terror grips his intestines.
Is this his fault?
Or could he blame the Machine?
The blueprint? The deity?
Anyone but himself!