Venting air

The sighing hands
that never wanted to deserve rest
ceased to be stubborn,
and assumed a daze with zest.

Trembling in response
to the cold numbness of calm,
they knew how it felt
to be a balm.

Strident cogs rolled into themselves.
They made things happen.
When they shrouded themselves with brake fluid,
He didn't know what then.

Mechanics were always others;
they worked their own steam.
Just the sense of arms
did not mean he was to catch a moonbeam.

In the throes of hypoxia,
the mind paved way for a honeymoon.
Airlessness is not always at hand,
but you live inside an air-vent.

His quest for a niche
sharpened his thirst for the globe.
As she drew to a close,
shreds of yes-men were installed in his lobe.