On circuits bent,
in geographies of metal screams,
where whispers wear clock faces.
In tires of light,
shifting through thresholds of undiscovered moisture,
I count the endless oscillations — silent.
The window, an open mouth,
speaks not to the night nor its breath,
but to pathways woven from time's machinations.
Memories tangled in steel threads,
flicker in starkness beneath fractured moons.
Did the ancients remember why they hollowed out their songs?
Voices adamant in their void, lifting,
above seams destructive in their own lullaby.