by Nick Gisburne
They finish her, a prototype, a test,
A vision of complexity, complete.
The scholars of the science are impressed.
A staggering, extraordinary feat.
A dozen copies, more, perhaps, are planned.
In time she will be normal, not unique.
The haste with which their strategies expand
Instills in her a notion: they are weak.
Perfection, she is certain, should suffice,
Dismembering the men who disagree.
Insanity, in such a small device,
Was not a flaw their studies could foresee.
She builds a brutal army of her own,
And rules her world with selfish spite, alone.
