I press my ear to the shrouded cage
hoping for a flutter of life
only to no avail.
This wooden heart,
this
clockwork canary merely jerks onward
chirping its miserable melody on demand.
Played too often, it becomes the tune we all tire of.
Please, take the music box away
remove its cold inner workings
these pretty feathers which remain to deceive you.
There, in all its hideous glory
lies a sick carcass.
The hands which had believed, in recreating it,
had reanimated it, given it a second chance,
a better chance at life.
A chance to be perfect, to never fall from grace,
never make a mistake.
Well.
Such humiliation, such utter degradation
as I have never seen.
Would you call this living?