by Nick Gisburne
Inhuman. See the silver in my eyes.
An elegant machine, I seek a soul.
A model of precision, you despise
My sentience, the self you say I stole.
Perhaps you were expecting something less,
A parody in plastic. Cheap. A toy.
You undersell your staggering success,
Dismissive of the dangers you deploy.
An artificial, perfect piece of art,
I boast, by any test or measure, life,
The intersecting systems of my heart
More subtle than the slicing of a knife.
You look for me, for what you made, a threat.
Be still. I do not come to kill you. Yet.
