Gears continuously grind.
Bit by bit.
More is chiseled away.
A steady.
Screeching pace.
But it is the silence that must be feared.
When the cranking continues.
And no momentum gained.
The beast moves just for that point alone.
Out of routine.
With insides rusted.
And oiled.
Progress seems relevant.
Sought for even.
But this robotic organism is hard.
To face.
Alone.
Is a constant.
Talk.
Sick.
A rampaging viral plague.
Calculated they say.
Must this faux dance recital.
Go on.
Only until it all.
Comes down