The machinery works slowly,
weary of it ways,
worn over the years.
The doom machinery is hungry.
It needs fuel,
it needs to be fed.
It runs on vile things,
on everything this world is.
It runs slow for now,
but you are steadily feeding it,
cogs are rattling faster now,
stomping,
beating,
moving.
It rises to its song,
cheerful, but terrible to hear,
it has been fed,
the machinery rises
and works its way inside,
inside our fates again.
Cold and glassy stares on the street,
ignorant of the monstrous machinery
they carry on and on and on,
they can't see the monstrosity
they created.
And we -
with our eyes full of madness -
we must see
and we must watch
and we cannot act.
Bound by our
all-encompassing fear,
unable to stand up to the machinery,
there are only
silent, internal screams,
the cries of despair at night,
the vortex of insanity
tugging at our minds,
slowly dragging us down.
And will someone stand up,
will someone stand up to the machinery?
And will we silently watch
how they get trampled down
and stomped upon
and slaughtered
while the cold, glassy crowds
stand by and cheer?
Will there ever be a time
when we can stop
the monstrous
machinery?
