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​Rhythm Of The Machine

This song is by Devar-Toi.

So precise, in cleft pinched tight.
"But for what?", lets suppose this question yearns for rest as an ink headstone
In the median of these freshly written lines.
Later to be defined by the borders of a burnt page.
Paralyzed and incomplete like the frozen work of a hopeful masterpiece,
Minus the final touch, an attribute of which only the most obsessive artist can obtain.

Foot by foot, the weak drag arm in arm.
Following their calling through a clumsy display of dismal art and illustration,
Yet they're waiting to be hung with the hidden among shadows birthed of planar dimensions.
These aren't reflections, just cheap imitations in obvious lust with the light to pierce them.

A calling so pure indeed
But gorged with infectious scars and un-healing seams.
Preying and preying indeed,
On each of my six senses quite cleary.

Now every stolen breath we've claimed has been retraced and recollected
So that for only one night's blessing we blocked the chills, killed the howls of our famished minds.
And thereafter everystep we took learned to lean backwards
Until we found ourselves stumbling down our prior paths in a symmetrical counter to progress.

Paralleled to this un-settling predicament hangs the doubt we dare not greet, "what did we gain?"
So we beg for more swollen regret at the swell of nostalgia as countless years of ability
Declined to show tribute but were quick to indulge in the proposal of greeting eternity.
Nothing is as certain as the assurance that can be gained
From standing alone immortal absorbing the admiration of the still-warm living.

So I documented the blithe, ignorance of a fool spellbound in his journey to capture life with a lens,
Then more than ever he hoped that it would later relinquish the years of long-lost faded decades,
Leaving those memories of dark tribulation to wither in the ruin of their exposures.
As they wither, they die in debt.

Slowly drowned to sleep in a wave that bends and peaks.
Devouring my dreams with such violent rage and urgencey,
For that wave carries to shore a message sure to be left unheard,
Trampled by the careless walk and sway of romance offered by sea and setting sun.
To aid we come and from her script we read:

While seeking and yearning to sleep sound all knowing
Many have fallen before even beginning their journey,
This journery so much like the plague.
So often we fail to observe the superficial desires of many.
Let them climb and fester, rot and roil like the opening of a freshly re-sealed wound
Left again to be ravaged by the will of filth and infection.
Let us spread this infection.
Our fingers worked to bare and bone offer only the dwindling remains of a servant's lost hope.
We've become the rhythm, the spinning perpetuating this machine.
To us is this safety? a master's back forced to turn,
Or maybe it 's in the thrill of each season as they wait to be reborn.
Now we're adapting as a collection of torn circuits to stage the breaking,
The ultimate faking of truth.
Thriving in close-knit vein networks,
Chosen to produce the hum of a vain electric pulse.

Show the blood, the flesh and I'll build the back if you build a spine
Strong enough to endure the weight placed upon or else just crumble like the displacement of time.

I've found nothing to be so potent as the prediction
That we are all failing from our structures as they fracture
And as we sink to the bottom of our chain held restraints.
The cherished roots of our beginnings fray as final detriment.
Cyclical by nature, lacking permanent end.
Observe our fragile dissent as we lay victim to the rhythm that hums of our failures.