The machinery is real,
embedded in the seconds of the morning,
hidden between 6 and 7 pm.

Unlike gravity, no equation can describe it
but the pull is real,
but the force is real,
the biggest mass always wins.

There were other days
when the machinery was asleep,
days of play and discovery
without an end on itself.

Those days are now called nostalgia,
and the machinery has no room for remembering.
You wake up and the choice is gone:
would my arts teacher be proud of me?

Read yourself in my words,
well, I have.
See yourself in your words,
well, I have.

For once you go through the mirror
there is no coming back,
for you are past the point of no return.

A new type of gravitas taunts you
like that kiss you can never forget,
for this new force is inside you
and not a product of the machinery.

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