I saw a clockwork angel once,
In the freak show of a computer fair
He was next to the iMac with the face of a dog
And the fat man chatting in his underwear.

The angel’s skin was silver, metallic
Like the back of a CD
Reflected in rainbow and lightsaber beams
I looked at him and I looked back at me
And he saw me, with a clear curved glass eye
Free of colour, bias, fixed perspective
He could see in shallow monochrome, or 32 bit depth
Or infra-red, if he so selected.

His hands were joysticks
Molded to fit
My hands
Or those of any within
The standard ergonomic range
For those outside he had attachments at the ready
Every part of him modular, interchangable
As flexible as all evolution in the course of a minute’s interval.

His wings were crisp
Like fallen snow
And shone like burnished gold
When he spread them wide
I felt inside
Like he had overclocked my soul

I’ve missed his kind, since judgement day
As Heaven was not Y2K compliant
But I don’t mourn him, I know he’d just say
“It’s being uploaded, not dying.”