Slate gray skies, fabricated, contrived
Simple deceits masked by this intricate, recursive cityscape
a stairway without end, doors opening to the yawning abyss whose breath moans ceaselessly over insensate polymer surfaces
life itself is anathema here
indifferent malice lurks in empty hallways, starves, misleads
A perfect antidote to subsistence
an edifice of impotent majesty
spaces challenge planets in volume
and hold nothing but silence
This playground of metal gods
who sculpt their own believers in mad reflection
You walk furtively in this empty realm
time recast in silicon horizons dim
and then glow
a corrupt simulacrum of day and night
You find feeble hope in artifacts of those who've come before
to wander and waste
a glimmer of organic revolt
a spot of mold you greet as if a brother
an empty shoe that just maybe will lead you to a respite
from sharing with naught but yourself this purgatory
But no way to tell how long signs would remain in air free of life's eroding breath
In a world without weather,
no date too mark temporal distance
or map to show the way
No one to hear your screams of anguish
drowned by the indomitable hum of the city