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,
anomalies,
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
void
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.
Homage
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
