by Nick Gisburne
The balcony, above, where I was born,
Is that from which I tumbled to my end.
My family denounced my death with scorn,
Abandoning the man they could not mend.
Intelligent devices took me in,
The twisted rejects from my father’s shop.
With accurate facsimiles of skin,
My saviour siblings camouflaged the drop.
I breathe; metallic organs make it so.
I move, with sleek, extraordinary grace.
Today the man who murdered me will know
The myriad emotions of my face.
I come to meet my maker, standing tall,
To give the gift he gave to me: the fall.
