Science cannot compute love or the wonder of its trance.
The wet of a kiss, the safety of an embrace, are far too advanced
Even machines with skin, and twinkling eyes at a glance
Cannot replace Man’s need of love or his need to interact
Within his own, even irrational emotional truths are a considered fact
Love cannot be created, duplicated, but requires activation to belong
It must be a chosen honestly, though the facts can still be wrong,
You cannot find love in a song
Or poem writ with best intended sentences
It must be in entered or engaged; it’s the action of one’s deciding.
Machines can be loved, but with no return, it leaves loneliness residing
Though it’s real in purpose and feel, it can’t be generated by bloodless steel.
It takes a heart of flesh and a brain of matter, to decode notions of a lover’s laughter
Leave the machines for sowing and reaping, but sure shoulders the rejoicing and weeping.