by Nick Gisburne
The cold machine emulsifies her eyes
But now she sees more clearly than before
Hypnotic threads of silver roll and rise
With grace, with purpose, through her flesh they pour
Her stale synthetic blood, polluted, weak
Is channelled to the reclamation drains
The tools of Church Electrica, unique
Rebuild the shattered shell of her remains
A resurrection grid, alive, aware
Connects her to the infinite abyss
And science far more potent than a prayer
Initiates a sacred state of bliss
Renewal is a gift, another dawn
She lives again, a mechanoid, reborn
