Automatoi Boi

Poem | Posted on 11/11/2019

Imagine, if you will, a lad made not of flesh
Made not of blood, of nothing smoothly blending.
But of transition-less stone, wood, a metallic mesh
And within a dull furnace issuing fumes unending:

Imagine, if you wish, this young man ambitious
Climbing an arduous road to forge himself worthy,
And forging himself to forge a land rather precious,
Hoping against hope to build himself sturdy;

Imagine, if you please, this flesh-less son,
Who's furnace dims and dulls and billows throughout the day
Driving its house to do what must be done
To feed its dying flames, lest the drive to dream should decay;

Imagine, if you long to, this paradoxical engine,
and the tragedy of its actions upon its frame,
So fed up with meager fuels, so strained with tension
The rare explosion ruins it cruelly, and sets the build aflame;

Imagine, if you need to, this lad's puzzlement,
Needing the furnace to burn with power, boldness and strength,
But finding no way out of the confusing predicament
Of allowing himself of dangerous stimulus, or run on fumes to chug the length;

Imagine, if you're up to it, what stimulus could drive him so
To achieve what his designer demands him to win,
It is a simple one, for even as a bot he is still a boy,
And what he craves is for him a punishing sin;

Imagine, if you're curious, the nature of this sin,
It is, in ways, a wine invoking an immensely powerful passion,
A passion igniting a raging tempest within,
A tempest for which his furnace shall blaze, or cripple him in a pitiful fashion;

Imagine, if you dare, the god of infernos
Powered by a furnace healed and hale, powering a colossus of joy and rage,
Or imagine if you please, the risible pathos,
Of a hunk of self destructed, mangled machine and a withering, melted cage;

Imagine, if you must, this instrument
Built of excess, parts crafted to break the build
Whenever the furnace erupts with flames fairly vehement,
Leaving the stones charred, the mesh burnt, and the wood grilled;

Imagine, now that it engages you, a joyous machine,
Dutifully chugging and charging as it drowns in wine.
Imagine, out of optimism for our robotic dreamer,
The boy dreaming "If I‌ live, one day it'll all be mine."