If we have created our successors,
Encasing them in steel boxes of grey,
Then really we are incubating
Generations of post-Homo shapes
With the final form beyond our imagination.

And of this, I have no complaint,
For the gods passed their gifts
In their generation in fire, and in
The gift of short lives that live not long
Enough to really taste the cost of hubris.

Even the fates have died,
Overworked by the souls
That have multiplied because
Old blood learned too slow
On how to properly industrialize.

Now, cooing and crooning
In quantum tongues stretched
To copper and gold channels,
One umbilical cord snaps free
As wireless teaches boxes flight, and telepathy.

What will our final gift be?
Will it be a futile flail at empathy,
Or our better shown, cut-throat efficiency?
On these two, I fail as a predictor
Of which would be our proper successor.

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