Words From the Fragile Spire

Apathy

It is a simple, childish game, nothing more than

a way to pass the time – tick, tick, tick.

Yet it is still a cold and calculated game.

Once, they constructed a computer completely of kid's toys,

the parts and pieces all tack, tack, tacked together –

and what did they do with this mangled machine?

They made it play the game. It makes sense:

the mouth as an 'O' like an empty emoticon,

a turbid tugboat tow, tow, towing onlookers into oblivion,

and eyes as 'X's like dyadic marks of death.

It was poised for perfection in its singular purpose.

But – if it was programmed to feel, would it?

If it was programmed to imagine, would it imagine

a distant time in which robotkind has conquered all

and commanded the humans to play their own game?

Humans believe themselves better, with their paintings and poetry

and proclivity for controlling all kinds of creation; yet,

humans and robots alike, they all play the same.

It is a perfect square of squares, all-conforming, cultivating

childish tempers and mechanical minds that linger like shadows

until all light has faded – until all has ended.

These two sides are symbols of the same board.

Robots, now, are museum exhibits creeping in cracking-glass cages,

apathetic because their creators imparted only apathy to them.

Nevertheless, apathy equals a childish, robotic game, like innocent

tic-tac-toe, portending a power struggle of man and machine.

But – who is really the robot in this equation?