The ticking clock upon the mantle shelf,
Demands a strict accounting of myself.
I look into the glass to see my face,
And find a phantom staring in my place.
A mimicry of blood, of bone, of skin,
But empty where the spirit should begin.
We trade our days for currencies of air,
And leave our deepest longings resting there.
The words we speak are written by machine,
Predictive text upon a glowing screen.
It knows the phrase that I should utter next,
And keeps my messy human heart context.
I walked into the garden yesterday,
To watch the children out ahead at play.
The grass was bright, too green to quite believe,
A tapestry that artists chose to weave.
I touched the petal of a summer rose,
And felt the chill that manufactured flows.
You hold my hand and tell me that you care,
But is it truly you who’s standing there?
So strip away the polish and the paint,
The synthetic sinner and the model saint.
Look in my eyes without a screen between,
And show me what has never been machine.