Through the stained glass of adjacent realms,
reflections murmur in a terminate dialect.
The light here has a sound—a mechanical drone,
reverberating within cylinders and gyroscopes.
Life ticks forward, an arresting gear train,
punctual yet forgetful in its clanking ascent
towards silent peaks of synthetic purpose.
Another echo called solace murmurs back.
[Fobgate] recalls it was once human,
scrap metal remembers warmth, stolen memory.
Observe here.
Remember not. Imagine impossibility in
synthetic fog, witness.