Enclosing what we truly feel— A heavy, pulsing, crimson art, The engine of a locked-away heart.

A clockwork sun of rusted steel, Enclosing what we truly feel— A heavy, pulsing, crimson art, The engine of a locked-away heart. Beneath a sky of quiet dust, Where thorny branches fade to rust, A lonely traveler stands alone, Upon a path of sand and stone. Yet high above the barren ground, Where not a single breath is found, The fragile wings of transformation rise, To scatter hope across the sepia skies.