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.
