A Tale Waits To Be Told...

I sat down to write about him,
His mould, moods, maze of mind,
Resisting another rising whim,
And words proving hard to find.

He read and made many a note,
Imprinting on memory, on paper;
Then, he also wrote to emote,
Slowly, he shaped into a shaper.

Even as he acquired his form,
She could no longer be ignored;
Their bond, it felt so warm,
Each the other, deeply adored.

So, I began to think with her,
As to what she likes, what not;
However, not very long after,
The plot had a tot, and a robot!

Should I think like a machine?
Could machines get more like us?
Would we be as we've been,
Or would we be foils in our opus?

And so a tale waits to be told,
With half-fleshed men and women,
Much like how life does unfold;
Does the Hand halt, now and then?