In the name of the Cog
to whom we can trust,
we beat you down,
and return you to dust.
Those, the unbelievers,
who ignore the cries,
of steampowered angels,
in the skies.
Your sins they will carry,
with well oiled wings,
to a place full of gaslight
and well oiled springs.
You worry no longer,
for the taste of fresh air,
a drop of pure water,
that no one would share.
Return to The Inventor,
you, his creation,
back to the center,
and gaze upon him in admiration.
Your reckoning day,
is here at last,
carry forth your memories,
your sins are now in the past.
Amen
Poem by Helena Stringer
More photos and credits after the break.
More photos and credits after the break.