Godless Machinists

Across gates of sand, for forty cycles, we roamed
In the grip of the sardonic suns
These spectral aberrations have become
The centerless figures of our attention

Spherical womb
Edge of the world

Unto that ineffable horror, we came
On the nocturnal frontiers of the skies

The arch of our finiteness

Spherical womb
Edge of the world
Where everywhere
Mеrges with nowhere

"Whеn I consider the short span of my life
Absorbed into the preceding
And subsequent eternity
Swallowed up in the immensity of spaces
Of which I know nothing and which know nothing of me
I am terrified"

The insurgency rose from the mud
To pierce through those crystal veils
And shatter the Machinist's stone pedestal

With the hope left of forty earth's revolutions

The insurgency rose from the dust
To break the Tablets of Stone
And seize the emptiness that lays
Beneath the surface

A glass surface over this rootless swirl
Caught into a glimpse that never came to life
Black flakes under the strain of uncertainty
We have faced the vanity of this attempt

The faceless center of our attention
Lured those ghosts into this work of absurdity
Now godless watchmakers
Of our jammed clockworks
Across those narrowing paths of sand, we roam

The insurgency rose from the mud

To crawl between this purple dew
And that light naked

Stenches on the cursing winds
Of expectant concerns
We shall face the vacuity that
Sublimated our earthly condition
Holding this moment to let denial be our last shelter