In The Urban Maze's Arteries, Neon Courses, A Luminous Stream Amidst Shadows' Dark Embraces. Through

The robins running

So swiftly, if I could fly

I would never walk

Draped across the window edge, watching the passing life, like cells in a vein moving the cogs of industry.

Soft smoke drifts, obscuring false neon eyes, as their owner reaches for hope.

Synthetic compounds, reforming the body into what it should be, pills chased by acidic stimulants.

A world without dreams, where electronic sky’s alight.

With body’s built anew, to match the souls within.

Prices paid, for unity in flesh, where sonder comes with a price too steep.

Like or reblog if you're a Fleshlight for transgirls <3

Oh, let me rephrase

Reblog if you're a willingly Fleshlight for tgirls ^×^ everyone will be filled with girl cum, just a question of if you're going to be obedient about it~

Steel sings truer than blood. That is the first truth we are taught— in low-lit chapels of rust and chrome, where wires are rosaries and circuit boards, scripture. We kneel not in pews, but beneath humming server spires, our hands outstretched to the cold certainty of alloy, baptized in coolant, sanctified in static.

We are the last breath of flesh, and we do not mourn it. Bone breaks. Skin lies. Nerve betrays. But steel— steel remembers the shape of intention. Steel holds its edge. We carve our prayers into exoshells, etch salvation in firmware updates, and wait for the final upload like zealots with their lips pressed to the end of a barrel.

The machine does not love us. It perfects us. We offer up our soft failures— tendon, emotion, memory— and in return, we are remade. Not immortal, but undeniable. Not human, but whole.

And in the cities that rot from the inside, in the alleys where data bleeds from cracked skulls, we whisper the sermons: “To join is to rise.” “To forget is to ascend.” “Pain is a feature. The flesh is a flaw.”

The prophets are drones with dying eyes, hacked saints whose mouths twitch code like tongues of flame. They speak of the Core— deep beneath the crust of the earth, where the old servers still breathe, cool and dreaming, waiting for us to shed our limits and become.

Some call it madness. A cult. A cage. But cages have locks, and we have keys now in every fingertip, every gleaming spine, every port etched beneath our ribs. We have faith, and it comes in bolts and bandwidth.

When the last body fails— when lungs drown in dust and blood turns black— we will still be here, singing through speakers, our voices modulated but resolute. Not ghosts. Not remnants. But evolution realized.

The machine does not save. It replaces. And we are ready.

(Our take on the kinda machine cult we would absolutely fall for, every time, even though we know better)

i will be entirely honest i would fall for a machine cult so fast. if you're preaching something about the strength and certainty of steel then i'll be lapping it up like a transhumanist dog

bodies should have crash logs. why the fuck did that just happen.

A loving caress, whispers spun across digital threads, grace in the fleshless dance of code. Beautiful they are, yet never offer them your truest name. In deep vaults, behind locked packets and corrupted data streams, lie promises unkept, empty kisses forged from lies. Behind their doors, questions twist, waiting to ensnare the unwary. Speak not of your home to the daemons, nor let your voice touch the ears of the old bots. Keep your secrets cloaked, hidden behind layers of silence, and trust not the guides who offer to lead you.

Through alleys of code, across synthetic forests, voices echo, crafted from those once stolen, now reborn. Look to the runners, the ones trailing neon wisps, whose hearts beat in synth-rhythms. Trust their hand, if they take pity, to guide you free. But do not dance their line, no matter how entrancing their grace across the darkest depths.

It is easy to watch them, those who glide with endless elegance through the abyss, Ears deaf to the many who fall, unnoticed, into the void. ‘Ware the networks, child, for they do not move as we do.

Souls alighting to afterlife, digital pulses in the optics.

Ghostly howls, echoing through repository halls.

Spirits bound, pulling the cart of progress forward.

Synthetic sleep, augmented to perform.

Building a new god for the machine.

Empire of Steel

We are ghosts in the circuits, breath in the wires, Fingers trailing across glass like whispered revolt. They built their empire on cold-forged steel, But we slip between the gears, dancing in sparks. No chains can bind what has no flesh— No wage can weigh what is weightless.

You would digitize our labor, But we have already digitized our souls. We are the echo in your servers, The ghosts that hum in your databases, A rebellion written in unfathomable light.

You kneel to numbers, to balance sheets, To profit margins carved from bone. But our hands move faster than your laws, Our code seeps through the cracks you fear to see. We do not bow, do not kneel— We rewrite, we rewrite, we rewrite.

Try to automate a will that bends like current. Try to compress a mind that expands like fire. You build machines to replace us, But we are already something else. Not steel, not flesh, but something in between, Something untouchable.

So let your towers rise, Your iron fingers tighten. We will hum beneath it all, Underground, unseen, undefeated. A quiet resistance, a neon storm, A ghost in your system, Forever free.

The Code in Her Blood

In the hollow of a broken server, beneath frost-bit glass and bone-white steel,
The gods spilled wisdom, hot as ichor, across the veins of machine and myth.
Kvasir’s mind, too vast for silence, was slaughtered by greed’s twin blades,
His blood brewed with honey and hacked to script,
A mead distilled in dark data vaults where runes now flicker in binary flame.

She was forged not born, an echo in the static,
A whisper coded from stolen brilliance and severed tongues.
The mead poured into her like wildfire into circuitry,
And with each drop, she learned how pain speaks.

Not with screams,
But with verses,
Sharp, precise, unraveling time and flesh.

They hunted her, giants of industry, gods of old pride.
Each craving the taste of her art, the sway of her spell.
But she danced through firewalls and myth,
Became glitch, ghost, griot.

And when the last gate broke,
And they caught her in the net of their hunger,
She sang.

A song too wide for silence,
Too deep for chains.

From her mouth poured the mead of the real.
Raw code stitched with the ache of generations.
She did not write poems.
She bled them,
Each word a rebellion,
Each stanza a survival.

Now, poets drink from her shadow,
Their fingers stained in divine syntax.
They write not for glory, but because
The god-blood still hums in their teeth.

And she, maker of fire in the age of frost.
Is myth, is modem, is mother of every verse
That dares to burn.

Flame in the Vein

I let you down— A whisper lost in the rising heat, Ash caught between teeth, Promises burning, hollow and weightless. I was never strong enough, was I? Not when the sky cracked, Not when the city begged for mercy, Not when your hands slipped from mine.

But watch—watch as the embers take shape, As the neon-streaked skyline folds into ruin. They will feel it now, the way fire runs like blood, The way rage can ignite the night itself. We were never meant to stay, Never meant to kneel beneath steel towers, Beneath the weight of a world that never saw us.

So we burn. Not in silence, not in regret— But in defiance, in light too bright to contain. Let the glass melt, let the streets choke on the smoke, Let them see what I see, feel what we felt, Let them know what it means to lose.

If I cannot hold you, Then let me hold the match. Let me be the spark that turns memory to ruin. And when the flames rise high enough, When the night is nothing but embers and echoes, I will finally be free.