The day a machine

writes a sonnet

to woo a woman’s heart,

 sees the spark

of a single line blossom

like the early stages of an apple,

not ripe for picking, still flowering,

the early bud of inspiration lose

and gain, a single moment when dew rises

and is perched sweetly, temptingly

on top and in sight, when a machine sees that

and looks upon it with cold dead eyes

in appreciation

then I shall know I have been beaten;

but then I have seen the cold dead eyes before

on a human being

as they committed

pen to paper, pencil to pad, type face to electronic beating heart

thankfully…

you also wrote with no soul in your voice.

Ian D. Hall 2018