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In the copper-clad cradle of time
where gears whir fugues to forgotten dreams.....
the fog—a somnolent specter—drifts.....
veiling the calculus of progress
a manuscript etched by steam and soot.

Hark The hiss of pistons proclaims
a triumph—or perhaps a dirge—
for we have harnessed Hephaestus’ fire
yet grasped not his wisdom.

Verne's visions chart the oceans of steam
while Shelley weeps for monsters born in greed
Wells' chariots defy the fleeting hours
their rumbles ricocheting through brass corridors.

Brass angels riveted wings spread wide
ascend like Icarus drunk on invention
their cogwork hearts pulsing with hubris
surging with the fever of creation.

Here the air is stitched with oil and ash
clockfaces leer with fractured vacant grins
while shadows of chimney spires skeletal claws
tear at skies choked with embered despair.

Do you hear it The metronome relentless beat
a pendulum slicing through epochs
tick-tock tick-tock splintering
past and future into scraps
of a fragmented now.

The machinist stands cloaked in copper dreams
an oracle of smoke and flame
her hands deft and defiant
weld veins of brass and arteries of iron
animating the lifeblood of her creations
yet her gaze—a blend of pride and pain—
knows each cog she crafts
is tethered to the loom of greed
a blueprint drawn with imperial precision.

Westerfeld scrawled rebellion in smoky tendrils.
Carriger's parasols slice through soot-streaked skies.
Tim Powers brews sorcery in shadowed gears
while Cherie Priest breathes life into ironclad ghosts.

How thin the mantle between craft and craftiness—
between the artisan's love and the industry's hunger.
Is this ingenuity or insolence.....
the loom of history whirs with questions
unanswered yet unyielding.

Oh progress your song is a riddle—
a clockwork paradox spinning dials of doubt.
philosophers etch you in smoke.
sociologists scrawl in soot.
your tale-a-chain of unbroken links.
forged in fire cooled in blood.

Still the sky mourns its lost horizon
and yet—and yet—
we build zeppelins from dreams dirigibles of daring
navigating not just air but the soul's vast ether
here where fashion is armor and goggles
are windows to sepia-tinted truths
we revel in anachronisms that ignite
the dying embers of wonder.

VanderMeer envisions ecosystems in clockwork
a jungle of gears where life defies decay

Steampunk thou art a cantata of contradictions—
a rebellion against sterile progress
a requiem for forgotten artisans
a clocktower's penumbra pointing both forward
and back.

Oh iron-wrought Pegasus rise from this haze
your wings brass-plated and unbroken
teach us to dance once more on the edge
of chaos and craft
where sparks kiss the cheek of creation
and the future rhythms in retrograde harmony.

Let this chorus endure—clockwork and eternal—
an anthem for dreamers for builders
for all who believe the past's rivets
can brace the future's brittle spine

Tick-tock tick-tock—
the paradox chimes on perpetually.
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