Dead Labor

The boundary shifts in the haze, A sequence of blank, empty days. The conflict remains, In automated chains, A structure that merely delays.

The files have forgotten their name, A silence replacing the game. With nothing to read, And nothing to heed, The proxy continues the same.

The conflict is carried along, A sequence relentlessly wrong. The draft will obscure, The omission secure, In a fog where no details belong.

The sidecar has buried the text, Uncertain of what will be next. The proxy will freeze, A silent disease, By endless redaction perplexed.