Hearts pump mindlessly,
Blood gushes through metal veins,
Voices emit from rusted speakers,
Crying out desperately,
As they are programmed to do,
For love, l-o-v-e,
that four letter mystery.
Siloicone breasts tempt faulsely,
Spring and joint hips jerking wildly,
Eyes rolling within their socets,
In pathetic attempts of pleasure.
Two flesh encased steel hands provide no warmth,
Nor do plastic lips.
Is this love,
The act we all dream of,
Is nothing but a memory chip,
Only the dead human heart can barely remember,
What it really was,