Reflections in the Eye of the Storm

I am.

At the core of this construct, this cultural effigy; there unwinds a clockwork heart whose spring was once wound then key tossed to smelter.

And the duration of unwinding is spent conforming to the carbon-based copy; shuffling blueprints deduced from the rules of the universe.

And corroded crumbs of wisdom taped to ticking cog-wheel whirr, count off the days in shades of rust and rot.

And rust itself is a poor conductor for all these construct sub-routines; rot a scarecrow foot at the corner of a crystallised cornea.

So this construct collides with its world, denies what is offered up as truth; strives to break free from the ties so carefully soldered in construction.

And had I not these construct eyes and ears for input to overload, I’d walk this path graveward with all the automaton-grace of patriot.

And on that walk I would pass beneath the waving flags whose bloodstained weave reflects the thin vain veneer that the operating system requires us to revere.

I am not.