by Nick Gisburne
Upgrading all the fibres of her flesh,
The quintessential core of every piece,
She knows the finest artificial mesh
Could bring her no redemption, no release.
With primitive beginnings, Model One
Was little more than speculative junk.
The vision of the man who made her? None.
A genius, a dropout, and a drunk.
When blessed with self-awareness, Model Two
Demanded something more than he could give.
No tech or tool enough for her, she grew
To covet his ability to live.
The Model Three, the cyborg, stands complete,
Her metal body wrapped in human meat.
