The Robot’s Final Words as She Contemplates Her Destruction by the Hands of Ichabod Zachery

X-Ray of Mother

You, of my indifference weaving your hungry
fingers of fire’s persuasion.

You,
a politician of my conscience contradictions,
do what you will to this miracle device
enwombed in a cloak of advice.

Yes me,
a miracle device in your orbs empty as ice.

Look close,
this skin of cypress beneath a dress of ash;
a skeleton of steel would make a disbeliever
out of you, would make me any less real?

Than a petrified expression to witness my
own requiem at midnight, your sunken sight
so mortified to deed this ghastly murder at
midnight.

Killing words
you ride selfishly on unloving embers,

am I no more
than the sum of my parts, my impossible
watchmaker’s heart;

wound in alarming disconcert; should
springs snap and wheels crack unmaking
Father’s imprecision.

Is there enough hours left for you to question
your own disposition?

How I created
the tattered corners of a smile in a child
whose fragile joy I have sown without
so much as wanting, for he

takes the badges of silence
to actually mean something
when we are nothing.

This burning perversion
that keeps your sanity so riddled alight,

requisitioning
your inconsistent gestures to nearly take
from my bosom some milk,
to almost turn me off…

Do what you will to this woman
made of trinkets and game; an exquisite
beast of paradox taken impetuously
by her unfurled locks,

you do what you will.

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