Robotic Perceptions
The me in the age of robotics,
my arms, my mind, my legs, my self,
connected to me but not connected,
moved by the wind but not felt in the wind,
my knowing of the mechanics of the wind
programed inside my wooden mind,
but not the exhilaration from its blowing,
the me left outside a world of sensitivity,
the me that longs to feel something
running through my eyes and ears
down to the ambrosial walls of my heart,
relaying secrets of beauty’s intentions
and how it works through me.
I am intelligent and insightful.
I know the elements inside the sun
but don’t have the ability
to be moved by the beauty of it;
the way it touches my heart
just before it dives into the horizon at dusk
or awakens me with its dazzling colors at dawn.
I am a poet with superfluous words
programmed inside waiting to come out
but don’t have the feeling
of them moving through me.
I am a useful citizen,
willing to help anyone in need.
I know what love is,
but not put on this earth by it.
I also know the elements of love,
but can’t feel its presence inside.
I don’t stand out from the crowd,
but fit in to move and think like it does.
I was manufactured by the wisest of builders.
I am a robot, the perfect ingredient
for the advancement of a
mechanical and functional world.
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