Diagnosis!

That day, I wore nothing but a thin layer of skin
And they put me through a machine
The machine sucked my soul through little veins
And they call hope in practice.

And amidst the duel
I observed a funny exercise
And they called it Diagnosis!

My beloved, who wore a sub-routine make-up;
She murmured and touches my breath,
Her tender palm in my rippled chest
And few drops of tears,
And I thought,
We have a lifetime to copulate.

The machines
They stoop so low
They devise all fickle mechanisms
And there, I was a pig
A dirty pig
A snorting pig;
A pig through the machine
And the conclusion was a pretentious hope.

The machine and me and the diagnosis;
My weary skin couldn’t care less,
Except for a hope:
Besides my body,
She stood tall!