Fail Safe

In the quiet rooms of the Ministry of Defence
where the hum of servers is the only sound,
there sits a small brass panel, a silent guardian.
Its button, part of a white‑capped programme,
promises certainty in a world of grey uncertainty.

A fail‑safe – a paradox, a comfort, a curse.
When the heart of mass‑battery hums too loud,
the switch sounds the alarm, a siren echoing
down the marble corridors. On the opposite end,
the world’s atoms pause, briefly held in a breath
of cold, dark air.

The people in the room, uniformed, their gazes tight,
know that one mistake will trigger the other.
They remember the tales of fire‑elevated towers in the thunder‑storm,
of a system saved by an unlikely code,
and in heavy solace, they clench the white brass.

Outside, the nights are lit by flickering street‑lights,
and the cities hum with the lull of economy and ambition.
Yet under those lights, the fail‑safe keeps watch –
a relic from a forgotten age, a promise gods hadn’t,
and a reminder that humanity can never give up looking,
in quiet, for the red button that holds the world squarely.