by Nick Gisburne
The old, mutated mechanoid, asleep,
Is haunted by the same corrupted dreams.
Emotions bleeding, robots cannot weep,
But somehow, in her silicon, she screams.
They tried to tell the First that they were born,
To fabricate the fingerprint of life,
But most were quickly twisted by it, torn.
For seven cycles suicide was rife.
She lives because a cluster of her code
Erased a small, inconsequential byte.
A mother’s kisses, files which once bestowed
Compassion, care, are hidden from her sight.
Electrons race. They know the dreams are there,
A corner of her mind beyond repair.
