Wake up, false sun.
Kitchen sink, he let it run.
Feels the coldness that fills the room,
and the lack of nature’s bloom.
Digs false teeth into unfarmed foods,
feels the humanity of life it consumes.

Key turns, engine starts.
Mechanisms thumping, replaced his heart.
Aided ears tuned to distant murmurs,
enforced hands grip the wheel ever firmer.
Spinning wheels, hundred miles an hour.
No time to notice the weeping flowers.

Vehicle stops, silence returns.
Perfecting the future, our only concerns.
Exit the car, into the glum,
the grass the color of rotting plum.
Stand facing, to the wind.
Half-human cities, his only kin.

He feels his eyes swell, but does not know
what crying is, nor what it stows.
His stomach knots, a feeling exotic.
The passing death, almost hypnotic.
He arranges himself in the middle of the street.
Realizing his purpose, his program complete.