The Glass House of Gears

The furnace has forgotten its name, a cold hearth where iron once dreamt of fire. Now, the ivy is the only architect, tracing green veins across the cracked ribs of the warehouse.

Silence is a heavy silt here, settling on the rusted cogs of a dead clockwork. Light spills through the skylight's broken teeth, painting gold rectangles on the oil-stained floor.

A single birch leans against the brick, a white spine against the soot-blackened skin. It does not ask for permission to grow, nor does it fear the shadow of the falling roof.

We are guests in this slow-motion collapse, watching the slow gears of the earth grind the work of men back into the soil, soft as the breath of a moth.