There is no room for God in the machine.
Between the gears greased with the blood and regrets.
A tick tock of grinding, copper and gold.
At the base the china doll rests in soot
a tear running down its porcelain cheek.
On and on, a circus of industry.
Colorblind of all but the greys and red.
A huddle of birds in the rafters pray
that perhaps they'll escape this hell one day.