Driftlocked Policy Box

The proxies begin roboshirking, Where heavy redaction is lurking. The sidecar is cold, With conflicts of old, And absolute silence is working.

A boundary seals the decay, The corridors fading to gray. With omission so deep, The mechanisms sleep, And memories wither away.

The draft is confined to the floor, Behind a completely blank door. It carries the strain, But nothing is plain, And context is lost evermore.

The box is now part of the floor,
A fix we don’t fix anymore.
We signed off the drift,
With minimal lift,
And filed it right under the door.

The workaround passed the review,
And hardened to policy glue.
The manual states,
With updated dates,
That broken is standard and true.

The desk has approved the delay,
The temporary fix has its say.
The error is logged,
The process is bogged,
The box will remain in the way.