Is it real?
With a heart like the hollow of a tree
And a maw of metal, murmuring.
Its grating words smooth to the touch
And its cavernous head veiling the thoughts
Of what was thought to be inhuman.
Can it be real?
With eyes that shine like tar pits
And the unsure drumming of a heart
Steadily chipping away
At the concealed core beneath the surface.
How can it be real?
What touch can it give?
What emotion precedes those empty words?
Grating words smooth to the touch.
But what touch can it give?