by Nick Gisburne
She cuts another servant from the rock,
At first a rough, inert, amorphous mass,
But soon, with every subtle chip and knock,
A troubled transformation comes to pass.
Complete, he is exactly what he seems,
The perfect imitation of a man.
A simulant, assembled from her dreams,
She carves him as no other creature can.
A surge of blood, her deadly essence, black,
Contaminates the contours of his chest.
The rock, a skin, begins to crisp and crack.
With life, her stone automaton is blessed.
A slave to sate her unrelenting lust,
Her savage claws reduce his rock to dust.
