He was mechanical in his actions, cataloguing each part.
If he was to ever live again, he must build himself a heart.
The one he had was rotten, had forgotten how to beat.
Petrified and fossilised, through deception and deceit.
Dark and twisted, black and scarred.
Barren and lifeless, stone cold and hard.
He took an ounce of empathy, and a spoonful of compassion.
Half a cup of pride, then with courage began to fashion.
He tinkered and he tailored.
He moulded and engraved.
He would either make a "work of heart"...
... or forever remain enslaved.
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