From the conveyor belts,
Slag is fed into my plexus.
The engines are replete
Yet still they draw in more.
My brain is a compactor,
Force-fed every moment:
As a failure to be discarded,
Onto the landfill of memory.
The tubes are overladen,
Yet still I will not bleed.
I absorb all the material around me,
Never to release it again.
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