Rob Roy

In the oil-stained grip of dusk, a mechanic's hands, Where wrenches clang and sockets spin in darkened lands. But in the shadows, amidst the grime's cruel stain, Lurks an artist's soul, bound by wrench and chain. His canvas not of cloth, nor paper's pristine white, But engines roaring, their metallic hearts alight. With calloused fingers, he sculpts in grease and oil, A master of machinery, a poet of toil. In the silence of the night, when the world's asleep, He conjures machines from dreams that run deep. Each bolt turned, a stroke of his darkened art, Each engine roar, a symphony from his heart. But cursed is the artist, bound to his metal muse, For his creations, they devour, in shadows they infuse. In the depths of his workshop, where shadows dance, His soul slowly fades, lost in his mechanical trance. So beware, all ye who tread near his domain, For the mechanic turned artist knows only pain.