The glass-eyed twin in circuits swells with fire,
a burnished mask unscarred by sweat or clay,
where flesh is pared to image, desire to wire,
and breath lenses in spectra hushed away.

This flawless shade of pixel, forged in glare,
outblazes pulse and tremor in the heart;
the maker falters, hollowed in its stare,
a husk estranged, unstitched from blood’s remark.

The echo’s throat is sonnet, not cry,
it sings the singer’s hymn yet wears no grief,
it bears the face, but none of time’s reply,
it gleams unspent, a counterfeit belief

So are we undone, estranged from our own hands,
lost in the shine no earthly face withstands.