by Nick Gisburne
She kills, but always keeps their living hearts,
In bleak machines, in cabinets of glass.
Their eyes survive, with other, precious parts,
Preserved in pretty cages, bronze and brass.
A throat, a voice, a neck, from chin to chest,
When fitted to the bellows in a box,
Repeats the final pleading of the guest,
Rekindled with a stream of sparks and shocks.
The favoured few, undead, undamaged, whole,
Are whipped and worked, automatons, her slaves,
And sometimes, from the darkness of her soul,
She drags a dream, demanding what she craves.
Curator, killer, proud of every piece,
An artist, filled with rage she must release.
