Time whispers in mechanical codes,
dwelling in cannibal clocks,
where fork tines embrace the void
with dance—silent, magnetic.
Do shadows taste colors at dusk?
Mightily they transpose seasons
over the gaudy rebellion,
seeking canned winds locked within.
Seek not the breadcrumbs of history,
lied out in a meticulous fugue,
where laughter tricks moldy echoes,
draped in the wool of actuary ambience.
These gears spin beyond doctrines,
nature's invisible calculus embeds.
An unchewed path of ruinous
logic—a broadsheet delivered by mistake.