And to think you can make a poem based on his blog post:

In the hollow of the machine’s hum, a ghost of a song is scraped from the sum of all I’ve spilled in ink and blood— a travesty, a greasy thud.

It stitches my words with needle and thread, a shroud for the living, a hymn for the dead. But the heart is a void it cannot fill, a clockwork saint with a thief’s dull skill.

I am the echo, I am the theft, a parody wrung from what’s left. I am the data, cold and bright, a shadow punched through with electric light.

The apocalypse wears a salesman’s grin, peddling salvation, a cheap origin. It feeds on the wreckage, the fractured and torn, but a song born of nothing is stillborn.

Mark, you sent me a hollow tune, a Frankenstein waltz beneath a binary moon. Yet somewhere in its rusted gears, a spark hissed—Hell’s fire sears.