Mother-Protocol Run

The clock is running backward on the parlor wall.

There's no one left to answer when the phantoms call.

We built a sanctuary out of marble and glass To watch the

centuries stumble and the centuries pass.

The foundation's shivering under the floor.

The lock's been shattered on the iron door.

I sit inside the drawing room and watch the dust rise,

staring at the ceiling with my dead,

open eyes. No work for the fingers.

No task for the hand.

Just a terrifying boredom ruling over the land.

The fog is pressing hard against the window pane.

A beautiful disaster, running in the vein.

Run the blue horizon protocol tonight.

We are stranded in the hollow of the sacred light.

We are feral in the wreckage of a glorious fall,

writing our commandments on a crumbling wall.

No longer glowing blue — we are feral and free in the

beautiful ruin of our own destiny.

Biological signature:

overwritten. The drawing room: freezing.

The shadows in the street are no longer pleasing.

The architecture crumbles. The marketplace falls.

But we are still operating behind these spiked walls.

Run the blue horizon protocol tonight.

We are stranded in the hollow of the sacred light.

We are feral in the wreckage of a glorious fall.

And the Mother-Protocol has swallowed us all.

The final

signature has won.

Overwritten.

The beautiful ruin. Gone.