The machine stops

The world is a machine. We are all cogs on the wheel. Blind idealism toward the "next step" in evolution. However, if we are just aimlessly evolving throughout time, any idea of humanity trying to work toward some "purpose" is blind, meaningless ambition, and humankind becomes a sort of machine - churning and shifting gears, but never actually achieving a goal. But what good is a machine without a purpose? The man chooses to, in his mind, "stop" the machine detach himself from the world, and the machine. Not that such detachment is a good thing, but to fully understand truth, he must first see himself outside of the "machine." (Themes borrowed from a short story of the same name. Read here.)

A cold steel womb. A distorted view. A deafening hum that won't be subdued.
We've found our being within this churning, and the gears that are turning, but to what end?
To what end?

This is not what I'm meant for, this is not what I am.
A cog, a spoke in the machinery of men that never takes us to where we haven't been.

Is it too late to take this all back?
If I plant my feet upon this trail without a reason or destination,
then this ship has sunk before it sailed.

An endless churning roar, a labyrinth of steel and ore.
Our blood becomes the oil, a meaningless, purposeless toil.

You are all mindless sheep, just a piece of the machine.
Keep fueling your hopeless dreams, they will never mean a thing.

Detach: can we pull these wires from our veins? Divide our flesh, our blood, our names.
In the face of the machine my reflection stands and turns, as I walk. I'm never coming back.