The Ugliest Truth
In the valley where midnight industries hum
the clanking of thought is loudest.
Decisions forged like iron at molten points, hardened
by the cold, indifferent dawn.
Here, we shape ideas into weapons
Tools of trade and masquerade,
each bearing the weight of truth
No less ugly than beautiful.
What is manufactured in this place,
if not the very fabric of our own selves?
We are the smiths of our own destinies, uniting
ambition with the midnight’s chilling embrace.
Let's ponder: Is the valley a sanctuary or a prison,
Where truth is molten and we the willing forgers,
Shaping our own shackles in the fire?