Cathedral Of Flame Poem by Micronjan (Micron)

The steelworks wake before the sun,
A cathedral of iron breathing flame.
Thunder coils through its bones,
Time itself bending beneath its weight.

Red-hot strip, a captive star,
Dragged screaming toward endless rollers,
Edges glowing white in helpless heat,
Pulled into jaws that hunger without end.

The metal writhes, resists, shrieks—
But the mill knows no mercy, no pause.
Rollers crush with precise, patient force,
Flattening, folding, consuming all.

Compression rises like a living thing,
A grinding verdict that will not relent.
Steel is folded into oblivion,
Its fury erased in the predator's rhythm.

Water erupts in scalding sheets,
Steam climbs, thick and choking,
Hiding the coils like vanishing ghosts,
Where heat and cold fight, vanish, and die.

The air is alive, dense, oppressive—
Sparks flare like the eyes of some unseen intelligence.
Nothing survives untouched here,
Only speed. Precision. Power. Oblivion.

The downcoiler waits, eternal,
A circling predator in ceaseless hunger.
Round and round at punishing speed,
The strip is devoured, swallowed, silenced,
Its fire extinguished, its shape claimed,
Its voice erased from the world.