Inside the lunar-titanium ribcage,
a boy becomes the ghost in the hydraulics.
Not a pilot, but a central nervous system
extended through fiber-optic threads—
the cockpit is a heavy lung, breathing
the ozone of a dying colony.
We have outgrown the silhouette of man.
The RX-78-2 is not a suit, but a syntax
of rigid geometry cutting through the vacuum,
a white flicker against the Side 7
charcoal sky.
The weight of the shield is the weight
of a thousand unuttered amens.
Static on the comms: the sound of NewTypes
shattering the glass ceiling of evolution.
We do not walk; we collide with the future.
We do not see; we perceive the intent of the beam saber
before the heat-blur blooms.
Flesh is the glitch in this architecture.
Steel is the mercy.
Between the thruster’s burn and the sudden
cold of the stars, there is a space
where the machine weeps oil
and the child forgets his name,
becoming the iron pulse of a revolution
that was never meant to be
this beautiful,
this terrifyingly bright
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