Intellectual machines sit at my doorstep
while I walk into the defiance of my past.
Horror stricken earth movers,
what have you uncovered?
What part of my past have you broken into?
Do you read the list of attendance I keep
of visits from crude intelligence?
Here is the template I use to cure your machines
of memory loss.
You question my resolve to heal Gaia's wounds
with mermaid songs.
View the descent of a feather as the time between
a string of letters and the wish for completeness.
I am already dancing with your machines.
Apart from having left the earth, they show no defect
of the tireless programs you built into their design.