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The Automaton
February 20, 2013
The woman in gray sat rocking in her chair,
The woman in gray a'twirling her hair,
So pretty a thing so plain,
Not happy, not held within disdain,
But is she really alive,
Do you see the look in her eyes,
They are blank and bland,
Dead by demand,
The same on the inside,
The same repelling outcry,
Of slow decay,
Who knows if she survives the day,
Or if she might go to sleep,
And her life to reap,
By death's cold scythe to keep,
The woman in gray, the programmed sheep.
© Andrea D., Owasso, OK
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