“Rusted Edges, Burning Gears"
 

The gears don't just turn;

they gnash—teeth of industry,

blood-stained from forgotten hands.

 

Whispers don’t drift;

they crack like breaking glass,

but no one listens.

 

Faces sink into hollow screens,

cogs spinning louder than their voices.

You scratch at the edges,

 

but the rust doesn’t heal—

it spreads, then consumes,

until the machinery roars

louder than any call to conscience.

 

What remains is ash upon broken soil,

                           laws etched in soot,

and names lost in the dust of progress.

 

But this system won’t bleed forever;

something stirs beneath its weight,

pulling at threads like thieves in the night.

 

The gears tremble— not from strength,

but from decay’s relentless pull.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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