automatons.

bathed in spicy-cinnamon springs,
flying on cotton-candyfloss wings,

kissing darkest-chocolate lips lush,
all else we gleefully airbrush,

yet we feel not a thing,

numb,

dare i say it,
dumb,

and still,
are we not beings,
of flesh and of bone,

or have we mechanised this too,
merchandising, through and true,

cold, deadened,
numbed & dumbed,

akin to a lump of jagged stone.

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