In the heart of a world forgotten, the earth groans beneath the weight of colossal machines. Great beasts of iron breathe smoke through nostrils made of flame, their limbs turning with a rhythm older than time. The sound of grinding gears echoes like the hollow pulse of a dying god, as metal claws tear at the ground. Their eyes, if they can be called eyes, burn with an eternal fire, casting shadows that stretch into eternity.
The land, once alive with color, is now a grave of dust and ash. Trenches carved by steel are the only marks left upon the earth, scars from a forgotten war that left no victors. The world is empty, barren of trees, rivers, or beasts. Only the machines remain, endless, indifferent, their hums filling the silence of a land that knows nothing but its own decay.
In the forges, weapons are born. Blades and guns, forged for a war that no longer exists. The tools of death are made, yet there are no hands to wield them, no enemies to face, no cries to hear. The factories churn on, creating with an unfeeling precision, producing weapons that serve no war, no purpose. And the machines, in their ceaseless creation, ask themselves: “Why do we forge if there is nothing to fight for?”
What meaning remains when destruction is no longer needed? When the tools of murder are born without a reason, without an enemy to face? The machines, bound to their endless labor, seem to search for purpose in the hollow clang of their own making. But there is no answer. Only the endless turning of gears, the grinding of metal on metal, the rhythm of life without life.
And in their wake, the earth is left barren, stripped of its purpose. Creation, without meaning, becomes an empty ritual, a cycle that never ends. The machines ask, without words, without thought: “If there is no war, why must we continue?” But they continue, for that is what they were made to do. There is no pause, no rest, no reflection. Only the march of progress, without end, without hope.
In this land, even destruction is a hollow gesture, a mockery of life. The earth itself, torn asunder by the very machines that now rule it, bearing the weight of a question it cannot answer. What is creation without a purpose? What is a war that has no enemy? The machines do not know, for they are caught in their own endless loop, churning on without cause, without meaning.
Here, nothing endures. Not the earth, not the machines. Only the rhythm of repetition, a lullaby to an empty sky. And in that rhythm, the machines, like the land they ravage, begin to question: “If there is no reason to create, why do we create at all?”
ImpChimp Art 