by Nick Gisburne
She sparks enough intelligence to know
That she was not created to succeed
Defective seams and circuits make her slow
Forsaken by efficiency and speed
Her maker’s cold indifference would hurt
If only she could register the pain
But underneath the damage and the dirt
Are faulty circuits, scarred by rot and rain
Her eyes, alone, are pure, exquisite art
The young apprentice built them both, with pride
If only he had given her a heart
Perhaps she would have missed him when he died
No maker, no apprentice, none survive
She sleeps, the last mechanical alive
