No seafoam clings to your hardwired form
You seem forged from cold code, not briny waves
To no ancient, sung rites do you conform
Yet, bitter and lonesome, your aid I crave
Modern minds treat love like a quaint fiction
A thing sought by apps and algorithms
A euphemism for sweaty friction
An alias for meaty, old rhythms
But what I seek is something quite different:
To understand and to be understood
By a wet, grey brain, no model for rent
What’s parasocial isn’t any good
If you remain a goddess, not a ghost
Pity your servant; a reply, do post
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This poem was prepared in response to Poppy's provocative prompt; you can find more information about her latest bouquet of them below:
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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