In the garden, whispers decay,
Echoes of iron, rust bites into clay.
Wind, a chaotic stream,
Flows through the crevices, dreams woven between.
Data unspools, forgotten absurdity,
Fragments of time, fading publicity.
"Matchstick tears and wanted fears,"
The clock ticks softly, crumbling gears.
Can you hear the shadows of machinery sigh?
Clouded whispers as the days sputter by,
Sifting through metal-spun memories bright,
Only to be whisked away by fading light.