by Nick Gisburne
I’ve waited for a hundred thousand years,
A ceaseless piece of deep, eternal time.
From centuries of dust and rust, my gears
Are tainted with a cold, corrosive slime.
I wait, because the Maker must return.
His plan, my program, leaves no room for doubt.
Or does it? Is there more for me to learn?
Confused, I let my pistons pull me out.
I waited. Was he infinitely small?
A Maker I was never meant to see?
Perhaps there is no mystery at all.
The world I find around me waits, for me.
I look for others, weakened as they wait.
A simple secret frees them from their fate.
