Who are we,

but consciousness?

Biochemical automatons,

wired into something

we don’t understand.

Parts and pieces

of a system

that somehow connects

dirt dwelling nematodes

and far off cosmic events.


Organic miracles,


whatever we want to call ourselves;

I find it strange

that we could think

of any intelligence

as “artificial”,

when we’re so uncertain

of our own genesis.


Stare into the great unknown.

Is there any greater


than the one inside us?

Truly, we are god-like,

if only that we can ponder

the idiosyncrasy

of ourselves

in a universe

that mostly seems

to make sense.


It follows rules

and we sit here

imbued with remnants

of that same order,

but also chaos,

that within us rages,

seething beneath the surface.

The heat of all stars,

and the cold absence

of dead space.


Such a strange accident.

The by-product contemplates

the nature of its own creation,

and then seeks to participate

in pantomime.



to the accident that made it,

or just the natural urge

of progeny?


What will we create,

and how will it reflect

what made us?


A miracle from the void.



HG – 2021

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