The frigid heart of the machine beat within glass halls.
Life condensed, conforming, upon its unfeeling walls.
A blank slate conceived, molded to its wearer's shape;
On it wrote a covert hand, tiny tears through the drapes.
The heart will stop, the droplets will flee to another cage.
Every not so often, when a brave breath fogs the ghastly glass,
will emerge an ephemeral escaping moment of revelation; of the eternal snake in the goddamn grass.
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