MECHANICAL WALTZ

An echo cannot fill a void marked by signs erased not by ink, but by time's cautious dance.

Built from whispers, the clock turns, yet eternity speaks through a rusty ballet of forgotten dreams.

Layers unseen, each erased sentence hums a dirge in the machinery of silenced histories.

What shadows write upon your skin, your circuitry, thrall-bound, scripted in cosmic dust?