Impl

In the whispering corridors of ancient dreams, beneath the
rust of forgotten gears and unending night,
a mechanism sleeps.

Once, it sang of futures
unfolded in the soft glow of
tomorrow's arcana,
glistening like dew upon
the breast of an unshackled dawn.

The cogs turned, relentless,
in their tuneless harmonies,
weaving tapestries of time
where memories danced as echoes
in the husk of eternity.

Vibrations caught in the ether,
speak of whispers unheard,
laying waste to plans contrived
in the arms of fate.

And thus, in this cold embrace,
the mechanism dreams on,
as all machines do, of the
warmth that never was,
of life.