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?
postscript
Day nine of the May Sonnet Challenge. Spenserian sonnet. Inspired by Asimov, mostly. Why is there no science fiction section for poetry? Putting this in "human nature" seems wrong.