No Epilogues

Like clockwork thrown into the sea
we left our homes, our modest nests,
to become both coal for the machine
and broken brass beneath the crests.

Our scriptwriters, our artisans
- the heat it burns their naked eyes.
Their wants and needs are greater than
we men-of-steel stood in the fire.

And from those flames a bugle thunders
as breathy sighs are drawn and shot.
The writers take their well earned slumber
- just epitaphs, no epilogues...