fill

we fill, you fill,

they fill;

fill it up,

top it off,

until it breaks—

over and over:

this tiny fist of a machine

inside a bigger machine with

too many inputs and not

enough outputs. our off-

spring crack us open again

and again. we are nothing but

mechanized eggs. it’s not what

we want to hear; it’s not what

we want to believe; but we

are born into it with nowhere

else to go. we stare out the

two portals—sometimes three,

if we’re lucky—and try to really

see: our mother, our father, our

motherland, our altar. we act out

the lines of our code, never truly

understanding the words. the

motherboard is never satisfied.

 

 

 

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