(Automata.)

There is no greater displacement of self
Listen to the others talking, noiselessly
What is it that makes us so different?
The insides are missing, they exist in rewind
Absurd and humorless on the television screen
So snide, these other automatons,
Who have not yet learned to speak
Am I a malfunction? Is this why I break down
While others speed through operations lonely?
Amnesia and dreams provide no respite
They patch the wound while it continues to bleed
The scalpel's path along my fingertip like paper
It is not so easily removed
Machine eyes, barking slurs and semantics
Lurch here and die, their skulls falling open
Holding us in, scrabbling against the walls
A delicacy for someone later