Metal People

There is no warmth 
Left, all that touches
Mind, heart, skin is
Cold here, clinical, none
Of these casual creatures
With whom I commune
Daily, are real.  All plastic
With plastic minds and hearts
Veneered and moulded
Skin.  None of them living.
They act parts, connect, 
Deflect, but touch no truth
Have no core, no ruth.
I hate their crudity and
Roughness, unabashed selfish
Focus - faces of cold
Chemistry and deliberate
Heartlessness based on
Indelibility of self-belief -
A creed that lacks
Light, warmth, heat.  They are
All machine, all jerk and pump.
I would unplug
That clockwork, dock the
Power to speak, to think, I would
Let them sink, metallic, into 
The rust they deserve.
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