The murder came to worship her,
generation after generation,
even as they and time pecked away
at her receding frame.

She who never mis-stepped had not:
frozen in perfect display of poise,
glance averted from the basilisk
that stood before her.

But all machines have flaws
embedded by those who made them:
the basilisk already dead,
it will never look away;
she will never get her moment
to strike.

The only life is the crows
that circle between her
and the midnight sun.