My mind's the prison. The warden's my anxiety
The trial was my ambitions and the jury were my demons. The victim was my potential
And the crime was murder

On an isolated hill lived two minds
As distinct to each other as stone and flame,
Yet of the same kin, they were brothers,
Together, their existence was to the purpose of others,
Each of opposing roles, yet harmoniously all the same
Working together as one body, work of two kinds,
Every dawn they’d head to town, as regular as the clock winds;

Two sentiments were associated with the town in question,
It was these that drove them so.
The eldest driven to strengthen what he deemed broke,
The youngest driven to ease the woeful folk.
Together with their efforts, the town would grow.
The eldest’s yearn was out of love for perfection,
And the youngest’s services were solely out of affection;

As the sun climbed the sky, they’d descend the hill,
And begin their work successively,
The eldest sternly masoned the folk’s abode,
Heedless to tender people, for he must follow his code.
The youngest softly took their refuse progressively,
With patience he’d allay the populace and shoulder their ill.
The two brothers worked and endured, with nigh indomitable will;

However, the brothers suffered their burden alone
And the youngest grew feeble with the refuse he accepted,
For no one could shoulder the pain he’d pent,
And alone he suffered his severe torment.
The eldest helpless to leave the brother infected,
And with his seizure he’d bitterly bemoan
Not tending to the town, incomplete and havoc prone;

As the youngest recovered and work resumed,
They’d engage with their purpose now strongly renewed,
The eldest fixed and forged as the other collected waste,
And the folk would feed refuse to the youngest with haste,
Eager to be rid of their ill, with toxic their houses spewed,
Now hale and hearty, the denizens bloomed,
Sickening the youngest again with their poison he consumed;

This cycle continued with aggrativing persistence,
Agitating the eldest beyond all sane measure,
For as cruel fate decreed they could be hale solely together,
Such was the tragedy of their vexing tether,
And to be seized as such evoked great displeasure
Within the eldest, for this situation halted his purpose of existence,
And the youngest would not quit against all manners of insistence.

To be locked and shut stopped the youngest not,
To the eldest’s frustration, he still wished to serve,
And would care not for suffering pain, oblivious to the eldest’s will,
The youngest worked diligently, tiredly, and would again fall ill,
Subjugating the eldest to a seizure he did not quite deserve,
And with this cycle his patience would steadily rot,
Making him colder, a permanent solution he desperately sought.

And one day the eldest made a cold resolution,
He choked the youngest’s neck and crushed his feet,
Shattered his ribs and broke his arm,
The youngest endured with a smile, and no alarm,
For he was no stranger to being mercilessly beat,
But when hauled to the graves even he yelped with confusion
And the eldest ploughed in the dirt for the final solution;

And the youngest protested but his wails were smothered,
As the eldest buried him without mercy within the earth,
Miles beneath the surface, far from the folk and their ill,
Miles from halting the eldest’s work against his holy will.
And then he headed to town with grim mirth,
Going about his tough work almost as if unbothered,
Coldly fixing the town, his mind blissful as he’d now rid of his torture;

On an isolated hill, one mind would live,
One with himself, even headed within,
With a body working with only his volition,
Now fortified and modeled to the purpose’s submission.
He worked without distraction, every morning he’d begin
And his need to vent he would never forgive.
For he built the city greater to not gain, but to give.

Imagine, if you will, a lad made not of flesh
Made not of blood, of nothing smoothly blending.
But of transition-less stone, wood, a metallic mesh
And within a dull furnace issuing fumes unending:

Imagine, if you wish, this young man ambitious
Climbing an arduous road to forge himself worthy,
And forging himself to forge a land rather precious,
Hoping against hope to build himself sturdy;

Imagine, if you please, this flesh-less son,
Who's furnace dims and dulls and billows throughout the day
Driving its house to do what must be done
To feed its dying flames, lest the drive to dream should decay;

Imagine, if you long to, this paradoxical engine,
and the tragedy of its actions upon its frame,
So fed up with meager fuels, so strained with tension
The rare explosion ruins it cruelly, and sets the build aflame;

Imagine, if you need to, this lad's puzzlement,
Needing the furnace to burn with power, boldness and strength,
But finding no way out of the confusing predicament
Of allowing himself of dangerous stimulus, or run on fumes to chug the length;

Imagine, if you're up to it, what stimulus could drive him so
To achieve what his designer demands him to win,
It is a simple one, for even as a bot he is still a boy,
And what he craves is for him a punishing sin;

Imagine, if you're curious, the nature of this sin,
It is, in ways, a wine invoking an immensely powerful passion,
A passion igniting a raging tempest within,
A tempest for which his furnace shall blaze, or cripple him in a pitiful fashion;

Imagine, if you dare, the god of infernos
Powered by a furnace healed and hale, powering a colossus of joy and rage,
Or imagine if you please, the risible pathos,
Of a hunk of self destructed, mangled machine and a withering, melted cage;

Imagine, if you must, this instrument
Built of excess, parts crafted to break the build
Whenever the furnace erupts with flames fairly vehement,
Leaving the stones charred, the mesh burnt, and the wood grilled;

Imagine, now that it engages you, a joyous machine,
Dutifully chugging and charging as it drowns in wine.
Imagine, out of optimism for our robotic dreamer,
The boy dreaming "If I‌ live, one day it'll all be mine."