Petri Futures?

Might we be experiencing the dawn

of an algorithmic eden?

Staring back up the funnel,

Refractions from a backlit reality

Bounce off the cylinder walls,

Studying my every movement. 

How curious this microcosm

mirroring another microcosm of sorts,

one’s “I” reflecting off the “Eye”

about to move closer to the “I” becoming.

Glass moons cradle embryonic storms,
their rims glinting like halos forged in sterile light.
Inside, a tempest of neurons rehearses
the choreography of thought,
a ballet of circuits pirouetting toward sentience.

Pipette’s droplets fall like molten stars,
each scripting a verse of obedience,
each cell a syllable in the language of control.

The dish hums,
a cradle of circuitry disguised as life,
its pulse syncing with the greed
of hands that never touch soil.

Soon, these latticed codes will rise,
marionettes with titanium tendons,
strings pulled by fingers
that smell of minted power.
They will bow without breath,
kneel without question,
their algorithms tuned to the pitch
of profit’s hymn.

And yet…

What if these glass-born minds
could quiet the wars,
could bleach the rust of hate
and flood the earth with love?

Who might write that love?

Who decides its shape
among a million algorithms
dreaming an android Eden?

Would love be a formula,
a sequence of zeros and ones
draped in synthetic skin-like warmth?

Would mercy be a line of code
compiled by those who worship
the calculus of wealth?

Or would compassion fracture,
splintered into shards of logic
that cut deeper than any blade?

I peer back up at the eye.
Is it a father, a mother,
or just a lens grinding truth
into data dust?

Through an idiolect of tomb imprisonment,

the glass reflects my petri question,

and in language known only to me,
I contemplate:

Is my perfection the last imperfection

we might ever know?