Posted by Erik Moshe on Thursday, September 5, 2013 Under: Poetry

Uzbekistan rain fell
on an ascending conscious-bot
Striking its back, creating blue sparks
lubricating torsion springs and rusty tongs
generator transplants cooled, steaming slightly
with strong, orderly strides
it made its way up the plain
a zone of sideways wind, a chorus of whistles
water streamed down from the clouds
hydrated the green fields and turmeric summits
gently, but in generous amounts
in a mayhem only time rarely ordains
the robot’s steel boots clunked through puddles
choosing to take a traditional stroll
over teleportation or large vertical leaps
like the ancestors, it thought
I’ll go where I need to on hardened footfalls
The top of the plain was near now,
as the robot quickened its pace to a slow jog
rain slick on its facial gears, and its bent back
muscle fibers were translucent, eyes without expression
something was at the tip that it had to reach
maybe it was understanding, it thought
the world around me beams with life’s currents,
yet favors the cellulose tribes, immortal tenants
I keep going because I can
I know that everlasting existence is a steep slope
the robot had grown to question elements around it
among them, “humankind”
who it was told
was either myth or truth, or just nuts & bolts theory
had God been the entity
who had created him in his image
or was it nature’s mettle?

In : Poetry 

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