He envisions the Machine as a large locomotive
Of a deep, tainted, black metal chugging down and infinite track
The eternally glowing red hot coals pushing the pistons
A giant crimson cowcatcher is fixed at the front
Scraping up followers; forcing them into the vehicle
Manipulating Its passengers to smash their heads into the Machine
Welding their minds into Its mysterious black metal walls

Stained with the blood of many who have tried to resist
Ultimately wounded, maimed, outcaste from society
Forever marked, branded by the scars of their attempt
When the Machine has used you and-or your mind to Its purose
It shoves you into Its furnace—keeping the pistons turning
The Machine cannot be stopped—always picking up followers
Forcing you into It; becoming one with the Machine

As He looks into the engine room, there is no conductor
A runaway locomotive chugging down the track with no end
Its only goal: gathering as many passengers as possible
Society, Washington, the Media built the machine
Their brainchild, but have long since become a part of It
Their minds welded the deepest—becoming the foundation of Its walls
Long ago abandoning their carcasses to fuel their mighty creation