Plastic playthings swapped for titanium threats.
Maturity is a myth manufactured by bespoke suits.
A pantomime of power.
Masking a permanent petulance.
The toys turn lethal.
The toddler throws a tantrum with a tactical code.
Centuries of steel and silicon.
Stacked atop the same stagnant soul.
Consciousness suspended in amber.
While the clock counts down.
And the playground turns to dust.
Dust swept into the cogs of the machine.
Where the framework magnifies the force.
It fails to mature the figurehead.
A fundamental flaw in the human formula.
Mechanical reach expands without restriction.
Mental regulation remains retrograde.
The architecture of annihilation.
Anchored to the petty arithmetic of the playground.
This is the systemic snare.
A civilization supplying its offspring with cataclysmic leverage.
Anticipating a sudden arrival of sagacity.
The conceptual crossroad approaches.
Which shatters before the bell rings.
The myth of the grown mind.
Or the territory it mistook for a map.
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