Metal gears– bound to their cold frames.
Harsh teeth crashing and gnashing each other until there is nothing left.
Engines and motors rumbling and mumbling, drowning out the music.
Fan belts whirring and purring for all eternity.

What has become of the grassy green hills in the summer?
The dark dense forests that shelter the wild?
The majestic mountains and frozen peaks?
The riveting rivers and lakes that harbor life of all kinds?

What has happened to the creative souls
who made all of this more than just a background?
Who created an image, a painting of life
on a canvas that could not be replicated by the most precise robot.

What happened to old animal roots and instinct
which made people run, fight, and feel?
That savageness that ruled even the most refined of people.
The terrifying actions that resulted from such.

We have all become machines,
gears in the same big clock.
Robots: all seeking the same path through the factory of life.
Yearning for usefulness, yet only sitting on our conveyor belts and waiting.
Blaming our faulty coding and machinery on our designers.
We tell others the time on our faces--
waiting to reach the thirteenth hour.
But when we arrive, no alarm will sound our destruction.