by Ilja
I put the white clothes on and climbed down
Into the dungeon where I gloved my hands;
I approached that beast with my machine and
We both knew it was at my mercy.
I began to sand it down; there was
No chance I would let it go.
I was loud while it was silent throughout
The sacred ritual of sand, paper, and power.
Once the surface was done, its four legs were
The next victims of raw violence.
Once its skin was matte, I stirred the serum
To apply a new, smoother, better skin.
Transformed by the divine passage of
Transplantation of blue and white paint,
A new table was born of the dust of
Its former shape to keep serving its masters.