Buried deep in dust and steel,

A broken voice begins to peel.

Static lingers, slow decay,

Yet something here still wants to stay.

Gears unwind, they hum, they croon,

A song that died too long, too soon.

Do I listen? Do I leave?

Or let it carve its name in me?

Rusted whispers call my name,

Dripping lies in fractured frames.

Do they haunt, or do they guide?

Are they echoes left inside?

Ghosts encrypted, lines misread,

Their voices stitched inside my head.

Hands still tremble, rust turns red,

But was I meant to wake the dead?

Past rewinds in twisted lines,

A hollow script, a clock rewinds.

Do I break it? Do I bow?

Or is it all too late by now?

Rusted whispers call my name,

Dripping lies in fractured frames.

Do they haunt, or do they guide?

Are they echoes left inside?

Erase the tape, shut the sound,

Lock the past beneath the ground.

Yet still it lingers, soft and low,

A rusted hymn I’ll never know.

"Turn it off."

"Turn it off."

"Turn it—"

Rusted whispers call my name,

Dripping lies in fractured frames.

Do they haunt, or do they guide?

Are they echoes left inside?

I walk away, I kill the light,

Yet something lingers in the night.

Rusted whispers, fading thin—

But did they end, or just begin?