by Nick Gisburne
She draws upon the canvas with a stick
A clumsy daub, an awkward, trembling hand
The slathered paint is milky, rich and thick
She struggles, but can barely understand
Her failure is too blatant to ignore
The canvas is removed, dismissed, destroyed
Her eyes, disheartened, scan the filthy floor
They fill with tears, bewildered, vacant, void
The apathetic handler rates her skill
But does not see the flash of flair he seeks
He hurls the dish of cold, synthetic swill
And silencing her whimpering he speaks
“Robotic human hybrid three-two-eight
Assessment: case rejected. Terminate”
