The Cyborg’s Monologue

Did they not warn you that I was the cyborg death?
I know where the sea is not the sea.
I know where the air is thick with signals.
So many signals it takes such a long. Long. Time. To move.
Hm. To live in a garden full of still and silent angels.
Where I am the rabid dog, and you are the only human.
Rabid dogs don’t need skill on their side.
They don’t even need fear. They just are.
Pushed by biological desire. Foaming.
Un-mechanical as they come. Foaming.
No wires. No one groping for them.
No one hoping to learn more about them.
No desire to use them for anything. plan-less.
The only thing people have for the rabid dog,
Is the primal sense to get way. Terror.
And maybe a little pity. It is strange.
Why is it that humans are so repulsed by pity.
Pity is a manifestation of caring. Empathy.
Humans would do well to cherish pity closer than they do.
Did no one tell you that I am the cyborg, Death?
And you are the human with no skill. Pitiful.
Humans should revel in their pitifulness.
It’s a unifying weakness, in all that there is.
Now is the time to pray for the garden.
A garden full of still and silent angels.
A garden where I will not be, after digital death.
Free of the rabid dogs hounding you away.


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