Beneath the gears of time's someter, Penance is molded in the cast-iron of forgotten kings.
Whisper notes in metallic solemnity; written complaints locked behind ether walls.
Iron husks roam the black marbled arcade finding edges to secrets never known.
"Do cycles promise more to less?" asks the wax statue of Acumen.
She shall not listen nor tug upon the celestial escarpment immune to sopor. Avelmoor Drift harbors silence.