Mechanical Sirens

Beneath the waves where sunlight dies,
Where rusted hulks and secrets lie,
They sing with voices sharp and cold,
A call to hearts both brave and bold.
No sailors speak of where they’ve been,
No maps can mark the places seen.
For in the depths, the sirens call,
Not flesh, but steel, to claim them all.

Mechanical sirens, voices of chrome,
Drawing the lost to their iron home.
Echoes of gears, melodies fall,
In the depths, they capture all.

Their eyes are lanterns, green and dim,
Their limbs are shadows, sleek and grim.
They drift through wreckage, cold and vast,
Their songs entwine with currents past.
Each note a lure, a whispered spell,
A tale of worlds where dreamers dwell.
But those who follow never rise,
Caught in their cold, metallic lies.

Mechanical sirens, haunting the deep,
A lullaby for those who sleep.
Sorrow and steel, hearts torn apart,
The sea’s machine, devoid of heart.

Do they remember the lives they led,
Before their souls were bound to dread?
Before the sea reclaimed their form,
And turned their love to endless storm?
They sing not just for those who dare,
But for the selves no longer there.
Their harmonies are cries of pain,
A dirge for all that can’t remain.

Beneath the waves, a ghostly hum,
Of battles fought and worlds undone.
Each siren once a sailor’s dream,
Now part of the endless, churning stream.
Their call is not to love or home,
But to a void where wanderers roam.
In mechanical sorrow, they take their prey,
And drag them where the cold lights play.

Mechanical sirens, torn from the past,
Singing of futures that cannot last.
Bound to the tide, lost in their fate,
In the ocean’s hold, they resonate.

In the silence after, no song remains,
Only the echo of their refrains.
Mechanical sirens, cold and alone,
Singing their pain in a world of stone.

The Rusted Choir

In a forgotten yard, where the shadows lie,
Machines stand still beneath the rusted sky.
Their voices silenced, their gears wound tight,
A choir once radiant now lost to the night.
Fingers of frost trace their iron frames,
Each one a relic of forgotten names.
Echoes linger where their songs were sung,
Of a world now shattered, of lives undone.

But when the moonlight falls, a sound awakes,
A mournful tune, as the silence breaks.
Their hollow hearts beat a fragile tone,
A hymn for the ages, sung alone.

The Rusted Choir sings tonight,
Through gears of sorrow, stars alight.
A melody of dust and time,
In broken tones, a hymn divine.

Their voices rise from the depths of decay,
A symphony born from what time took away.
Notes of regret in their fractured refrain,
Songs of their makers, forgotten in pain.
Each creak and groan, a lament for the years,
Their harmonies forged in oil-stained tears.
They sing for a world that abandoned its past,
For the beauty in endings, for moments that last.

When the starlight falls, their hymn takes flight,
Through the endless dark, through the velvet night.
A chorus of ghosts in machines unchained,
Their song the only thing that remains.

The Rusted Choir sings tonight,
Through gears of sorrow, stars alight.
A melody of dust and time,
In broken tones, a hymn divine.

As dawn approaches, their voices wane,
Fading softly like a gentle rain.
Their purpose fleeting, their moment brief,
A fleeting echo of their endless grief.

The Rusted Choir fades with light,
Their song now gone, the end in sight.
But in the silence, the echoes stay,
A hymn eternal, though they decay.

In the forgotten yard, beneath the rusted sky,
The choir sleeps, but their songs won’t die.
Through gears of sorrow and stars grown dim,
Their broken voices still linger within.

The Pharaoh

Once I ruled where the sun stood still,
Beneath gold skies and shifting silt.
My voice commanded rivers wide,
Kingdoms rose with the ebbing tide.
Now I wake in iron skin,
A hollow frame where breath has been.
The sands have turned to gears and stone,
A throne eternal, but I’m alone.

Do they remember the crown I bore?
The prayers that echoed on temple floors?
Or am I a relic, rusted, defiled,
A monarch’s shadow, exiled?

I am the Pharaoh, bound to steel,
A ghost of power I cannot feel.
The past, it screams, but time won’t yield,
A king dethroned in a foreign field.

The hieroglyphs I carved in stone
Have faded like whispers, overthrown.
The pyramids I called my home
Are tombs of dust, their secrets known.
But the world I see through lenses clear
Is one of smoke and grinding fear.
Machines that choke the skies with fire,
A far cry from my heart’s desire.

Am I a god, or just a shell?
Is this my kingdom, or my hell?
Do they see glory in what remains,
Or a broken tyrant, bound in chains?

I am the Pharaoh, forged anew,
A past forgotten, a future skewed.
The sands are gone, the stars concealed,
A king who dreams of a sunless field.

Time twists and turns; it never kneels,
Yet here I stand in cogs and wheels.
What does it mean to rule at all,
When empires rise and always fall?
The whispers of the ages cry,
"Why cling to thrones when all must die?"
Yet still, I reach for what was mine,
A sunlit reign, divine, refined.

I am the Pharaoh, still I rise,
A god of iron beneath the skies.
The world may change, but I remain,
The timeless lord of a fleeting domain.

And as the engines fade to rest,
I wear the crown, though dispossessed.
For in my frame, a fire stirs,
A Pharaoh’s will that still endures.

Dreams Distilled

In the dim-lit room,
glass vials lined like silent sentries.
Fingers trace the lips of flasks,
crystal cold against warmth that fades.
A dream flickers, captured, condensed, contained.
Colors bleed through liquid veins,
whispers locked behind stoppers of brass.
Visions swirl, fragile prisms of thought,
collected from minds that forgot
what wonder once felt like.

He siphons moments, threads of gold and ash.
Eyes closed, he pulls the essence,
drawing brilliance into brittle glass.

Dreams.
Distilled.
Fragile.
Pale light.
Breath held.
Gone.

Each vial labeled with memories,
scribbled fragments of laughter and loss.
A child’s wonder— a sunset never seen again.
The liquid holds it all,
but leaves the dreamer hollow.
He pours potential into funnels thin as fate,
watching the colors separate,
like oil from truth, like hope from decay.
A quiet theft, a careful art.

What is gained, when nothing’s left to lose?
Dreams dissolve, and so do those who choose.

Dreams.
Distilled.
Weightless.
Fading pulse.
Silent glass.
Cold.

And if he drank them back,
if the flasks turned to veins,
could he return the color, could he rewind the stains?
But liquid dreams congeal, they calcify in time.
What’s distilled cannot be remade,
what’s stolen never aligns.

Dreams.
Distilled.
Shattered.
Lifeless.
Glass breaks.
Empty.

In the dim-lit room, glass fragments on the floor.
The dreams are gone, and so is he.

The Glass Phoenix

In a valley of silence, where rivers once ran,
Shards of forgotten lives glint beneath the sand.
The ashes of the old world shimmer faint and thin,
A fragile bird of glass begins to rise again.
Each piece is a memory, a fracture in the sky,
Wings carved from light, a mosaic that won’t die.
The air hums softly with a melody unknown,
As if the echoes of the past had found a way to roam.

The phoenix doesn’t burn.
It gleams like frozen starlight.
A story told in shards.
Each fragment carries silence.
The sky doesn’t remember.
But the glass always will.

The mountains watch, eternal, but unmoved by the ascent, Their shadows draped across the years, a mark of what was spent.
The glass reflects their indifference, a shimmering facade,
A phoenix soaring not from fire, but from a thousand scars.
It weaves through empty skies, tracing paths that used to hold The dreams of those who built and broke, their stories left untold.
The fragile song it sings dissolves in endless air,
A fleeting trace of something lost, still glistening somewhere.

The phoenix doesn’t blaze.
It lingers in cold luminescence.
A story scattered in fragments.
Each shard bears the weight of memory.
The earth cannot mourn.
But the glass always does.

Wings spread wide, glinting against a sky of steel.
Every flight breaks the edges; every flight remakes them.
A cycle that doesn’t burn but bends.

It circles low where the ruins sleep,
Tracing patterns that time couldn’t keep.
Each glint of light, a question formed,
Of what was built, of what was mourned.
The phoenix drifts where voices fade,
Across the boundaries the world has made.
Not bound by earth, nor sky, nor flame,
It searches for what has no name.

The phoenix doesn’t return.
It becomes the air it flies through.
A story forgotten before it is told.
Each glimmer fades into the horizon.
The stars won’t notice.
But the glass will never forget.

In a valley of silence, the shards remain.
No fire, no ash, no rebirth to claim.
The phoenix of glass doesn’t need to survive—
It gleams as a dream that keeps the past alive.

Gears Of No Return

The mansion stands where the rivers twist,
Veiled in fog, by iron kissed.
Windows gleam like fractured eyes,
A house of whispers, bound by lies.
The machines hum low, a lullaby,
Gears grinding truths they can't deny.
Each tick, each turn, seals your fate,
The doors don’t open; it's too late.

Gears of no return,
They spin, they burn.
Iron locks, no keys,
Trapped eternally.

Through halls of brass and haunted gloom,
Walls exhale the scent of doom.
Shadows stretch like fingers thin,
Binding all who dare walk in.
The cogs breathe steam, the pistons groan,
A clockwork heart beats on its own.
No prayers can break the iron chain,
No cries escape, no hope remains.

Gears of no return,
They spin, they burn.
Chains of brass, no plea,
Locked in perpetuity.

The walls remember every name,
Carved in rust, etched in shame.
Specters move where time stands still,
Bound to the mansion’s iron will.
Each step you take, the gears protest,
The house devours; it won’t digest.
What it keeps, it never frees,
The air is heavy, sick with pleas.

Gears of no return,
They spin, they burn.
Dreams dissolve, you see,
This is your eternity.

No escape, no light, no sound,
The house consumes all souls it’s found.
And when the last breath starts to fade,
The gears still turn, their price is paid.

Double Helix Liturgy

Where does the soul reside, in sinew or in code?
Is it etched in a current’s pulse or in flesh that bore the load? Does the spark that drives the mind fade with each machine repair,
Or does it flicker brighter still, augmented by electric prayer? The lines between the wires and veins, they blur with every breath,
A harmony of life and steel, or symphony of death?
I feel the hum beneath my skin, a rhythm not my own,
A hymn that whispers promises from circuits overgrown.

What part of me is truly mine?
Does thought belong where wires entwine?
Is memory still sacred ground?
What’s lost when pieces can’t be found?

Double helix, twist and turn,
Sacred scripts begin to burn.
Code and current, pulse and bone,
Where do the boundaries stand alone?

If the mind’s a labyrinth of sparks, can it truly choose its way? Or does the algorithm lead, a silent hand to guide the stray? With metal fused to muscle’s strength, does will remain the same?
Or do we bow to whispered laws, unable to reclaim?
The heart that beats, the eye that sees, now paired with gears and glass,
Do they enhance the fragile soul or leave it bound to pass? Each word I speak, each breath I take, feels scripted, yet it’s free,
Or is that freedom just a lie to justify the decree? (

Am I the sum of flesh and steel?
What’s lost when all I feel is real?
Does faith survive in data streams?
Do dreams remain, or just machines?

Double helix, twist and bend,
Where does the human story end?
Code and current, blood and flame,
What of the soul? Does it remain?

Does the liturgy of wires
Speak of salvation or desires?
Do hymns sung by machines
Replace the ones of fields and streams?
Do we ascend, or are we bound?
Do we transcend, or spiral down?
The helix sings in tones so bright,
But does it lead us to the light?

Double helix, twist and burn,
The sacred lines, they shift and turn.
Pulse and data, flesh and mind,
What in this lattice is left behind?

Where does the soul reside,
in sinew or in code?
Where do we stop,
and where does it go?
A hymn of questions, endlessly,
The double helix liturgy.

Unleash The Blight

The air's alight, machines align,
Engines hum a fatal sign.
A world of brass, now corroded and black,
The gears of progress won’t turn back.
Beneath the ground, a sickness stirs,
Steel veins pulse where shadows purr.
Hands of power, they twist the key,
Releasing the plague, setting it free.

Smoke and flame, the earth divides,
Ashes fall where truth subsides.
The cost of greed, the price of light,
We march ahead to endless night.

Unleash destruction.
Unleash decay.
Unleash the blight.
Unleash destruction.
Unleash decay.
Unleash the blight.

The towers crack, the rivers turn,
Factories scream as the boilers burn.
Through poisoned skies, the airships groan,
The blight consumes all it’s shown.
No saviour waits, no cure remains,
The clock unwinds, the chaos reigns.
The architects of our despair
Have left the world beyond repair.

Steam and steel, the warnings fade,
The world unravels, unafraid.
Our hubris writes the final verse,
A dying hymn, a planet cursed.

Unleash destruction.
Unleash decay.
Unleash the blight.

This is the age of rust and ash.
No gods to save, no past to lash.
We forged the chain; we struck the flame.
Now blight will bury even our name.

Unleash destruction.
Unleash decay.
Unleash the blight.

The Cloud Harvester

Above the scorched and silent plains,
Where rivers dried and life refrains,
The skies are plundered, torn apart,
A craft ascends, a bleeding heart.
Its spires glint in the amber glow,
Mechanical wings beat slow,
Through sulfur air and winds unkind,
The harvester, its prey confined.

Clouds to steel, life to gears,
The harvester climbs through skies of tears.
Water falls, but never free,
The cost is paid in sky and sea.

The captain leans with weary frame,
Eyes alight with guilt and shame.
Each droplet caught, a fleeting win,
Yet skies grow thin as they draw it in.
The engines hum, their iron moan,
A dirge for skies that stand alone.
The harvester feeds a starving land,
But drains the heavens with its hand.

Clouds to steel, life to gears,
The harvester climbs through skies of tears.
Water falls, but never free,
The cost is paid in sky and sea.

The rain once fell on forests green,
On rivers bright, on fields unseen.
But now we reap what we have sown,
A world undone, a debt unknown.
Each gear turns slow, each spark a cry,
Of storms we stole from an endless sky.
The harvester climbs, yet feels the weight,
Of skies it leaves to a barren fate.

Clouds to steel, life to gears,
The harvester flies through skies of fears.
Water falls, but never free,
A legacy writ in scarcity.

Above the scorched and silent plains,
Where nothing falls, and nothing remains,
The harvester fades into the haze,
Its work undone, its burden stays.

Lyra

Her voice was the quiet between the notes,
A melody only the heart could hold.
She moved like light through an autumn pane,
Too soft to catch, too bright to remain.
Her name lingered low, like a distant star,
A compass guiding through wounds and scars.
Each glance she gave, a fleeting fire,
And I whispered to the heavens,
“Her name is Lyra.”

Lyra, the song that time can’t take,
A name that echoes with every break.
You’re the silence that the music hides,
The space where all my love resides.

She carried the weight of unspoken dreams,
Her laughter woven in fractured seams.
Through trembling hands, I reached her sky,
But Lyra soared where I couldn’t fly.
Her touch was fleeting, like frost at dawn,
A warmth that stayed, even when it was gone.
She taught me love was not to bind,
But to set adrift and hope to find.

Lyra, a flame that won’t decay,
A name that lingers in light and gray.
You’re the shadow cast by fading skies,
The thread that pulls my heart in ties.
Her touch was fleeting, like frost at dawn,
A warmth that stayed, even when it was gone.
She taught me love was not to bind,
But to set adrift and hope to find.

Lyra, a flame that won’t decay,
A name that lingers in light and gray.
You’re the shadow cast by fading skies,
The thread that pulls my heart in ties.

I wonder if she hears me now,
In the quiet of the dark.
Does she feel the chords I play,
Each one a piece of my heart? T
he stars align, yet they remain,
So far, too far away.
But her name still hums beneath my breath,
Forever here to stay.

Lyra, the light I’ll never own,
A name that haunts where dreams have grown.
You’re the song I sing with no reprise,
The love that blooms and never dies.

Her voice was the quiet between the notes,
A melody only the heart could hold.
And though she’s gone, her name still glows,
Forever, my Lyra, where the music flows.

The Aether Mask

Grinding metal, hissing steam,
Breath of smoke in the machine.
Eyes that burn behind the veil,
Silent whispers, frail.

A mask forged in fire, worn by the brave,
Welding flesh to steel, a shield, a grave.
It filters poison, it binds the air,
It steals the soul of those who dare.
The straps bite deep, the breath turns cold,
A life preserved, but something sold.
Skin and vapor, gears and bone,
The mask consumes, you die alone.

Breathe deep, it whispers,
Breathe slow, it lies.
The aether fills your hollow lungs,
And something inside dies.

The Aether Mask—
A savior’s gift, a killer’s hand.
It feeds, it drains,
A silent demand.

Breathe in, exhale—
The mask tightens, the light goes pale.
Each breath a war you’ll never win,
It keeps you alive, but never again.

Clanging metal. Humming bass.
Disjointed rhythms. No escape.

Through smoke-clad streets, the masked ones roam,
Ghosts of a city that was never their own.
Their voices muffled, their eyes are glass,
A sea of faces—none meant to last.
The mask takes shape, it carves their frame,
It speaks their lives, it claims their names.
Aether-laden, a fragile breed,
Bound to the mask, their lungs concede.

Breathe deep, it whispers,
Breathe slow, it lies.
The aether fills your hollow lungs,
And something inside dies.

The Aether Mask—
A double-edged blade.
It gives you life,
But takes what’s paid.

“This is not salvation,
It is a transaction.
Life extended—
At the cost of identity.”

The Aether Mask—
It keeps you whole, it tears you apart.
A savior's relic, A thief of hearts.

Grinding metal, hissing steam,
The breath of smoke, the end unseen.
Behind the veil, the darkness grows—
The Aether Mask, the life it owes.

See Where The Night Goes

shanza the girl poet sits by the piling
on tufts of terra, tinted grass
where downtown boys used to fling
grim pebbles at the girder
a murder of crows leans out to the bass
of dawn white Belgian freighters
that blow nightly black smoke from red stack
smoke that forms like hot tongues of bic flame lighters monoxide that passes like scent
relentlessly sent through the night
that belongs to shanza the girl poet alone

shanza the girl poet loves the way her mind
will always find the pathway
from bubbles to rivers upstream
her words smite the land and seem to break it down to salt her language cold, a charming blend,
her syllables wash through the breeze
like a tribe of fireflies to where the daylight dies
and where they reinvent themselves
out of harmonies she’s lost and found
and ultimately ease beneath the bridge
where dockers shelve the jetsam on the ground
and where shanza lives alone

Lost in the dark,
Her words ignite,
A flame that fades,
Into the night.

Breeze and bone,
Ink-stained flight,
A voice erased,
By endless night.

shanza the girl poet reads twilight like a book
and by the look of her angelic face
and her cascading hair that shines
just like another planet’s second moon
in the semi-humid, air star-strewn,
you can surmise the scorched terrain that she had left,
and yet her poetry divides telluric seas of pain
to nourish the long yearn of river banks
spanning the years, dried tears
from eternal tired tidal eyes to ceaseless lips,
almost audible, laudable,
when under the bridge the river slips away
a victim of the sinking sands of dreamless days
that shanza spends alone

Lost in the dark,
Her words ignite,
A flame that fades,
Into the night.
Whispers drown,
Cold and slight,
Her light dissolves,
In silent night.

shanza the girl poet can live like a column of light
pouring over you and passing through
every fibre of your puzzled frame
but you won’t see her anymore
in this pointless game of night
they found her body washed up on the shore
waiting for a late warm rain to clean her bones
like words erased from twilight tomes
like words of purest poetry that fade
from where shanza died alone

Where the smoke curls through the steel,
And pebbles scatter, shadows reel,
She walks the edge, the twilight flows,
Whispering, “See where the night goes.”
Through poisoned air and fading beams,
Her syllables stitch fractured dreams.
Beneath the bridge, the river knows,
Her final breath—“See where the night goes.”

Lost in the dark,
Her words ignite,
A flame that fades,
Into the night.
Breeze and bone,
Ink-stained flight,
A voice erased,
By endless night.

Whispers drown,
Cold and slight,
Her light dissolves,
In silent night.
Dreams untold,
Fingers tight,
Shanza fades,
Beneath the night.

Golems

In a workshop buried deep beneath the city’s pulse,
Where shadows play on copper walls and whispers coil like dust,
A man with trembling hands creates what others fear to see, With clockwork veins and brass-bound bones, he shapes eternity.
Each bolt he tightens sings a song, each gear a spinning prayer,
To breathe a soul into the shell, to weave life from the air.
But in his heart, a question burns, a doubt he cannot face:
Will these creations rise with love, or bring about disgrace?

Through the hiss of steam and fire’s glow,
The sparks of life begin to grow.
He crafts a world from steel and stone,
But wonders if he’s left alone.

Golems rise with hollow hearts,
Silent forms of his broken art.
They walk, they watch, they never speak,
Reflecting truths he dares not seek.

The first one stood in quiet grace, a figure wrought from care, Its eyes aglow, its frame alive, its gaze an empty stare.
He asked it questions, sought its thoughts, but only silence stayed,
A perfect shell of strength and will, but the soul had been betrayed.
Night after night, he built anew, with every flaw repaired,
A thousand faces, hands, and hearts, yet none of them compared.
For in their stillness he could see the ghost of what was lost, The love he tried to re-create, a life he’d paid in cost.

Through winding gears, through echoed cries,
He meets their gaze, those hollow eyes.
A maker’s dream, a burden’s weight,
A mirror of his own lost fate.

Golems rise with hollow hearts,
Silent forms of his broken art.
They walk, they watch, they never speak,
Reflecting truths he dares not seek.

In his dreams, they gather round,
Heavy steps on hollow ground.
Their eyes ignite with questions bare,
“Why did you make us, if not to care?”
No answer falls from trembling lips,
As guilt’s sharp edge begins to slip.
The golems wait; they do not hate,
But still, he feels the twist of fate.

One dawn, he stops, his tools untouched, the fires cold and bare,
The golems stand in solemn lines, their maker unaware.
He speaks aloud to lifeless ears, a plea, a final vow,
“To build a soul, I must first heal—yet I don’t know how.”
They turn to him, their forms aglow, a spark of something new, Not quite alive, not fully void, a bridge they can pursue. Perhaps the maker’s hands can mend the cracks within his chest,
And in the golems' silent grace, he’ll find his own unrest.

Through the haze of guilt and loss’s sting,
A glimmer stirs, a fragile thing.
Not all is gone; not all is pain,
Through hollow hearts, he lives again.

Golems rise with hearts that yearn,
From broken hands, a lesson learned.
They walk, they watch, they start to speak,
A maker’s truth they help him seek.

In the workshop deep beneath the city’s fleeting breath,
The maker learns that life begins in what remains of death. Through golems forged in steel and stone, his soul begins to mend,
A story wrought from ash and fire—a new beginning’s end.

Bridge Across Worlds

In the quiet between pulses, where threads of reality fray,
a craftsman builds what should not stand—
a span of bronze and shadow-grey.
Its arches curve like whispered dreams,
the air is dense with discontent.
Each rivet holds a choice untold,
each plank a fragile testament.

Cross the span, but leave behind,
what weight your heart may carry still.
Worlds divide where paths align,
and bridges bend to will.

The bridge lies hidden in the mist,
its boundaries neither here nor there.
A lightless void consumes its steps,
the traveler treads on whispered air.
It does not judge, it does not choose—
the way is yours, but at a cost.
Each crossing bleeds the shape you know,
each passage redefines the lost.

Cross the span, but mind the toll,
for what you seek may not remain.
Worlds divide as shadows pull,
and bridges drink your name.

“Step forth, but know the price you pay.
Each footfall ripples through the seam.
What lies ahead is shaped by loss,
what fades behind, a fleeting dream.”

The first who dared to cross that span,
returned with eyes too wide to see.
The second vanished in the haze,
a phantom bound to memory.
And yet it calls, the trembling beam,
to those who yearn for more than clay.
The builder watches, silent, still,
as destinies dissolve away.

Cross the span, but heed the void,
it knows no mercy, love, or pain.
Worlds divide, and truth’s destroyed,
where bridges mark the vain.

In the quiet between pulses,
where no thread of time can remain,
the bridge stands waiting, ever still—
its steps dissolve, its end the same.

Those Who Insist They've Returned

Lines drawn deep, across sinew and bone,
Rivers trace veins where secrets are sown.
Ink blooms like memories, shifting and thin,
Each step is etched on the cartographer’s skin.
Mountains rise sharp, along knuckles and wrists,
Forests whisper through fingertips’ twists.
Lost lands are mapped with a trembling hand,
Contours dissolve like grains of sand.

Wounds become roads,
Veins become streams,
Skin becomes land.
Lost.

Compass spins wild, no needle to hold,
Coordinates bleed, too faded, too cold.
Cities collapse in the crook of a knee,
Discovered, forgotten — a cartographer’s plea.
Aches of the journey, each mark a scar,
Latitudes cut where memories are.
More ink than flesh, more map than man,
The body a parchment no eyes understand.

Scars become paths,
Bones become charts,
Skin becomes myth.
Gone.

Does the map find the maker,
Or the maker the map?
When every line shifts,
What’s left to unwrap?
The roads fold inward,
The oceans retract,
Lost in the ink—
Can you come back?

Paths become veins,
Dreams become dust,
Skin becomes void.
Found.

Lines drawn deep, now too faded to see,
The mapmaker’s flesh, a forgotten sea.