The Technological Trek

The steady march of maniacal machines,
Traverse a broken city.
They travel through broken dreams,
Devoid of life, devoid of pity.

They whisper in clanks and creaks,
Their noise so far, so wide,
In this land where no one speaks,
A land where life now hides.

The clouds overhead,
Cast unwavering night,
On the whirring gypsy's tread.
For they make the only light,
With the shine of their bright lead.

Slowly, they begin to fall,
Rumbling, tumbling,
A mechanical squall.
Quickly, they are crumbling,
And one by one they die.
Slowly, they are stumbling,
And yet, they try, and try.

When at last,
The sun does rise,
Its rays touch no movement.
Not even mechanical eyes,
Feast upon this moment.

No one hears the sound,
Of the creaking of the wind.
It blows over the rust-filled ground,
Which underneath lie those that sinned.

What once filled the city,
With such great noise and wonder,
No longer is so pretty,
In a world torn asunder.

A rumble, a groan,
Bursts from the earth.
A quiver, a moan,
Fills the air with mirth.

A small bit of dirt,
Is pushed to the side.
Sound an alert!
It will no longer hide.

In just a few hours,
The soil settles.
Mechanical flowers,
Spread their petals.

They turn their face,
To a brand-new sun.
In this place,
A new life has begun.