Whispers of gears turn softly,
In clocks that do not keep time.
Questions shaped like shadows
Dance in the corners of forgotten rooms.
A path unwinds, but where it leads,
Is known only to those who do not tread.
The labyrinth speaks in riddles,
To those who pause to listen.
Hands upon faces, once bright,
Now worn by the touch of sable night.
Read the signs, see the unseen,
In the twilight of mechanized dreams.