by Nick Gisburne
They laughed, at thoughts, at visions, plans, too big.
Impossible, they told him. Smoke and air.
A toy, no more, a childish whirligig,
Conceived without charisma, without flair.
But no one sneers at this appalling sight.
As armies of automatons advance,
They drag a beast behind them, from the night,
And oh, the spurned inventor, see him dance!
His creature, too fantastic for these fools,
Was what their sworn adversaries perceived
Could conquer empires, worlds, and with his tools
He gave them more than even he believed.
A thing of brass and bronze and steel and war,
Beyond what any madness built before.
