The assembly line of ideas
whispers in fog-bound tongues.
Crumpled time slips through fingers,
Where do lost notions go?

Each machine, a confessor of dreams,
each cog, a secret untold.
Metal breathe, rust of wisdom,
in these corridors of quiet noise,
turn and twist, forever.

Pulses erratic, echoing
in the framework of existence—
an epiphany of chaos,
a labyrinth of soundless screams.
Connect, disconnect,
repeat
until the fabric threads the needle
of existence.

Rusty hands, gentle touch,
caress the intangible with care.
Softly, softly, a whispering symphony,
born of metal, disintegrating in air.
Ephemeral,
in the factory we breathe life into phantoms.