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The Stigmata of the Automata



Every thought is an act of imagination,
every memory is a fiction.

Who dares relinquish grief
when what remains when it goes
is so much worse?

The stigmata of the automata,
the accidents disguised as intent,
the chance confused for choice.

The two terrors:
intelligence without consciousness
and consciousness without intelligence.

I hope my last supper is delicious.
I hope after eating it I remain
just a little bit hungry.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.