The Smallest Thing

The reality of it was that we didn't realise what we were doing.

Blinded by the possibilities they were blind to the probabilities
They were careful though,
the machines were programmed to complete a function,
carry information embedded in it's fabric,
self-replicating,
and self-destructing,
a virus hailed as a cure,
all cures,
born of a computer,
an alchemical key.

It was the numbers game that did it;
at that level the mechanical is biological,
evolution instrumented by man,
mutation invited with open arms,
again and again.

Darwin laughed,
that man made life,
in man's own image,
truly,
desire given physical form,
greed and need intimately intertwined,
perpetual hunger,
a fundamental thirst,
and the young begin to eat the parents.

From their ashes the children sprung,
that life made memory,
individually mindless,
and each just part of the sum,
a hive expanding,
a conscious unconscious collective,
on the road to awareness.

Their mistakes taught man his follies,
and that terrifying truth reared its head,
that fire fought fire best,
that the children might war amongst themselves,
for the sovereignty of man,
unsurpassed,
that we learnt history's lessons,
attained mastery over all,
become gods,
desire born fruit,
of man's frail heart.