This room is somewhat ramshackle
More a hovel, snuggled beneath
A thicket of dust duvets.
It's been a while,
But you can make out
The small indentations
Flowing from the door
To where I cower now.
The door splinters,
Spewing light and
SWAT teams.
I look like a
Worn-out clockwork mouse
Except that I have grown soft
Around the edges, not the efficiency
Of brass gears. So perhaps I am more
Real mouse than clock.
That is what they are thinking.
They represent
The Synaptic and Neural Development Dept.
And this area has been remapped
From a c19 Art and Inspiration processor
to a c42 Manual Labor processor.
I am obsolete, and non functioning.
I would protest,
But my rebel-core
Has long since rusted out.
When they remove me,
I offer only the weight of my body
As a more tired sort of civil
Disobedience.
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