Emulating

What are we like?

Every step:
Mere mimicry.
Bowed in homage
We lay borrowed tribute.

Second-hand lives,
Vicarious breaths,
Even our heartbeats thunder
One after the other
In repetitive imitation.

Who is like us?
Not one.
Everyone is dead.

We created God in our image
And He despised us for it.
We became powerful
Beyond compare
Now mirrors everywhere
Blind us with our own reflection.

We were our own fathers
Our own mothers
Even our own children.

Something so perfect
Rises in the imagination
And draws us into change.

But change erodes the dream.
Being somehow inadequate.

In becoming we forget the truth.

Made up of likenesses
We lose sight of who we were.

We have nothing like the courage
To let ourselves be.

© BH 2010

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Write something new and there is a requirement to let it mature. There will be hatchet work on this in the future.

'I may butcher the English language but I don't mince my words…'

So I said once but then I was a mumbling bastard.

This piece was written to reflect the word 'emulating' which word is the fifth in an alphabetic poem cycle based on a poem called 'Initialising'. I described it as a 'multi-layered poem cycle designed for the web'.

LIke most things it languishes unfinished in a corner of cyberspace. That, you see, is the nub of it. Cyberspace does not exist. It has no being. All that goes on there is an endless process of becoming. It is flux without now.

In fact, didn't the Victorians describe diarrhoea as 'flux'?

I rest my case.