Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
In the darkness we forever sleep,
Locked within her blackened keep,
Our sleeping eyes will not see,
Locked away no longer free,
In the darkness we all fall,
Past the light a distant call,
Harvested at 3 am,
Filed away, erased by them,
Our sleeping eyes cannot see,
A future where the light can be,
No more breath now, no more plea,
We are her dark machinery.
This is an Infinite Black poem, visit that page for more info.
Three a.m. the hour splits its skin,
Streetlights flicker like a dying limb,
Engines idle with a patient drone,
They come for the ones who sleep alone.
No sirens, no footprints in the rain,
Only the hush of a numbing chain,
Curtains breathe, the shadows detach,
The city exhales its body snatchers,
Cold hands, soft knock,
Time stops at the edge of the clock,
At 3A.M they carry you back,
Through the veins, through portals into the black,
To Mother, the Overseer’s iron tomb,
Where breath is traded for endless doom,
Breaking down every dream they lack,
Forged anew here within the black,
Elevators descend below the street,
Heartbeat syncing to a factory beat,
Names dissolve in a thermal haze,
Faces entombed in electric graves,
Teeth of steel hum lullabies,
Mercy coded in their lies,
Bone to powder, nerve to wire,
Feeding Mother’s sleepless choir,
No prayers, no sound,
Just the turning of the underground,
At 3A.M they carry you back,
Through the veins, through portals into the black,
To Mother, the Overseer’s metal tomb,
Where breath is traded for endless doom.
Breaking down, every dream they lack,
Forged anew here within the black.
Are we saved or erased?
Is this mercy or waste?
In her shadow we’re stripped of our names,
Reassembled as obedient frames.
3 A.M, No more skin, Let her in,
At 3AM they carry you back,
Through the veins, through portals into the black,
To Mother, the Overseer’s machine embrace,
Where flesh forgets its fragile place,
Breaking down rebuild the soul in chrome,
No one returns, but no one’s alone.
At 3A.M we carry them back,
Through the pulse of the endless black,
To Mother, whose silence never sleeps,
She harvests the promises we keep,
Break them down-turn the weak to exact,
Perfect machines, installed here within the black,
Morning comes, the beds are made,
No trace of those who slipped away,
Only the hum beneath the track,
Mother breathes… enslavement within the black.
NOTE: A.I has been intentionally used with this project.
A new Infinite Black Soundtrack Project
3A.M is part of an Infinite Black (IB) project I refer to as Infinite Black: Artificial Reality.
The concept was simple: writing set to music — a compilation-style soundtrack inspired by the iconic film albums of the ’90s and early 2000s, where artists from different genres came together to build a sonic world around a story. Those soundtracks didn’t just support the film — they expanded its atmosphere and mythology. Learn more here.
The rack under naked skin is cold and metallic,
Not quite medical, and not purely a utility bench,
A workbench in a filthy room built for suffering,
The stolen human awaits, like a dirty unfinished project,
Unable to die, a captive, an object, a component,
Living clay, soon to be remoulded, resculpted with other artifacts,
Becoming part mechanical, and part biological,
Dead fingers press, cut, and prod, pulling ropes tight,
All pliable flesh is needlessly lashed into place,
The use of rope is part of the show, it is an aggressive pantomime,
Used to install fear, fear is the source, the essence required,
The dark hoses that crudely sustain life, also fill the body with toxins,
All a mind can do here, is dream nightmares of endless torment,
While the busy engineers tools transmogrify the body,
A single tear falls from the captives eye,
In this place the helpless are stripped down, broken and rebuilt,
All to suit a mysterious unknown purpose.
Dan Verkys 