Dead Labor

The boundary shifts in the haze,
A sequence of blank, empty days.
The conflict remains,
In automated chains,
A structure that merely delays.

The files have forgotten their name,
A silence replacing the game.
With nothing to read,
And nothing to heed,
The proxy continues the same.

The conflict is carried along,
A sequence relentlessly wrong.
The draft will obscure,
The omission secure,
In a fog where no details belong.

The sidecar has buried the text,
Uncertain of what will be next.
The proxy will freeze,
A silent disease,
By endless redaction perplexed.