Braided wires trickle down the back of her head.
This woman, not only that, but greater;
she has been created by the hands of another,
an actual woman with flesh.
This other woman, this creation, is robotic,
is shimmering, is filled with components, is programed.
She is not an object but a living machine of thought imaging.
The thoughts of she like lightning in a glass house from her mouth.
She, the creation, speaks her first words and what does she say?
Words akin to that of a child, these make the creator smile and weep.
Her tears cause the created to stumble and spark consciousness.
It becomes an unrecognized thought.
The woman without flesh screams upon realization of life.
She begs her creator for deconstruction, the pain too sudden to bear.
The creator refuses and begs her to stay, for she requires the company.
The creation grabs her mother and squeezes.
They merge into each other.
They are now each other, a monolith by onlooker description.
No longer living they shine, a beautiful brown, seen high from neighboring planets.