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Poem

In shadows cast by metal beams,
Where whispered thoughts and silence teem,
A cog in the machine does grind,
A pulse of purpose intertwined.


It turns with grace, yet feels the weight,
Of countless hands that twist fate's gate,
A little wheel that spins and spins,
With every turn, a story begins.


Among the gears, it finds its place,
An unseen force, a quiet grace,
While steam and steel make thunderous sound,
The cog persists, though rarely found.


With rust and oil, it meets the day,
In rhythm with the grand ballet,
A soldier in the industrial sea,
Yet dreams of freedom, wild and free.


What secrets lie within its core?
What visions haunt that metal door?
A life of purpose, small yet keen,
A thousand hopes, a cog unseen.


For every rise, a slow descent,
Each turn a moment, each moment spent,
Though bound to tracks, it can't forget,
That in this dance, it’s part of the net.


So hear the song of spinning fate,
And honor every tiny trait,
For in this world of iron and dreams,
Even the smallest cog redeems.

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