The eternal mechanism—
the machine concealed behind plaster and skin and blood—its light is hidden behind long, blackened days—
with ribbons of dirt and nitro-glycerine wrapped around a blazing, pulsating star and monotonous living things, unstable and uncontained—
we choke on effluvium as it squeezes our lungs, but we do not respond as we should, for the tissues lining our organs are iron, and cold, and churn only as they should,
undetecting and flawed—
and unfazed by the toxins clouding our throats, fists of filth encircling our necks and closing in around the hard, rotten flesh—
seraphim eyes cannot pierce us and burn our spirits, for our souls are lost in a purgatorial region of the human psyche—
We are cadavers flushed of personality and knowledge by a sea of antidepressants and stabilizing drugs—
but we cannot protest for we do not know of any alternative truths, for we are mere machines fed feculence and carrion and fib—
a human is loud and rancorous, demanding that his voice penetrate our thoughts, but the human machine is silent apart from clicking clockwork and puffs of steam whistling through blunt copper teeth, and slowly

we will fade like dreams in the morning.