I gain until I find myself over you, and I do so with ease: the war machine has no passion, for purpose is what forces cogs to turn. They taught me my name was injury, and I took the title as it was given; violence is a virtue, after all, and what are we if not cruel? But as my reflection glimmers in the blood, I am left within the carcass of my creation. "What could've been?" is what my throat itched to scream, but when lungs are replaced with gears, it's a challenge to produce sound with meaning. Acceptance is a double-edged sword that craves ruin, and injury could have had a kinder meaning if mankind didn't thrive in tragedy— even so, I continue: not because I believe in the act, but because the gears do not ask for belief— only motion.













