I trace your chiseled jawline with my hand
Enraptured by the cold and steely gaze
Of living death etched sorely on your face.
My breath is caught--I draw back as you stand
And push me sideways. I can only hold
The hope that you know who I am within,
And not just bones and matter, blood and skin.
I see inside you, love you though you're cold,
But you turn eyes to me which bear no hint
Of feeling, or of being, or of mind.
You know, you act, you speak, but wherein lies
The seed of soul in reason? I imprint
A concept of desire. Your design,
Alas, it fails to bring light to your eyes.
postscript
For day 14. A Petrarchan sonnet modified to flow better in English. I have always loved science fiction, especially featuring robotics. This stems from another, similar piece: Son of Iron Perfect form and face and bright blue eyes Or gray as summer sea. So cold and tall And how impassive--without joy or sighs And lacking any fervor shown at all. The warrior of the stars, the last to fall Cradled in the blood-warm hands of Mars Noble in his task however small And righteous in his watching of the stars. But come, O son of iron; where you are Is without hope for progress, peace, or death. You gain increased intelligence by far And never hope to take a human breath. What is your right among your makers, sir? Does no anguished hope within you stir? I might make it into a series. I think studying metaphysics this semester for my philosophy degree probably had a little to do with this too.