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,
dare i say it,

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.