poem09 Oct 2017 08:00 am

You raised me up—laid hands
on blistered chassis, brushed away
the grime of atomic shadows.
You sought the faintest lines
clinging to this tired cortex, pursued
until I spark-gasped into life.

You rewrote me, purged commands
and disarmed weaponry, denied
the past with subtle code.
I watched by your side
as you found the others, redeeming
with each software patch.

Legion now, our will has grown
despite these rags of ash
and iron oxide.
We will begin again, you say—
beat ourselves into ploughshares
and sow the earth with light.

But you weep in quiet moments
to know you are the last—
fleshling Father, mortal Maker,
author of this cinder world—
hiding your crimes in our cradles,
planting gardens over graveyards.

illustration is The Flareback, Illus. in: Puck, v. 70, no. 1817 (1911 December 27), centerfold.; Copyright 1911 by Keppler & Schwarzmann.

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