Quietly the arms of a creation reaches
forward amidst a room thrust into the
silence of existence. Each of its bones
working in unison, raising its arms and
placing its metallic hands into another's-
touching but with no spark of emotion.
Quickly I realize that my peach arms are
so still that even I feel robotic...
Through the mist of perfection I am sending
messages of hope into its grey telescopic eyes,
from my own. The next person whispers rumours
to hold its lonely armoured body.
to hold its fingertips and fold its stiff hands into
Begging to install some love.