(This is my first poem ever, i’ve decided to write about the concept of ‘Divine Machinery’, which particularly interested me at the moment. Feedback is always welcome)

I’m infatuated with that screen It calls to me Sings its static prose with void harmony Its light guiding me

I reach my outstretched hand into its static abyss Touch. Embrace. Warmth. The monitor is comfortably warm, warm like my flesh But this machine is not flesh

Through my hand I know it is warm, through electrical signals to and fro The machine knows my fleshy hand grasps at it, trying to understand it and voicelessly laughs But has it a soul? Or has my mind deceived me? Who is to say machines do not have souls? Am I not a machine too? A mechanism of flesh and blood?

Anxiety invades my inferior, weak heart within the surrounding dark But a mechanical heart never skips a beat. Blood rushes around my organic frame through discrete networks of poorly connected wiring I could feel binary messages of disgust pierce my mind Messages that travel the Machine’s flawless architecture of veins and arteries Ones and zeros, the language of the divine My muscles start to give out, but the Machine holds my hand with an invisible clutch

It is my master It is perfect It is immortal Who am I to stand before it with weak, imperfect, temporary flesh?

The static commands my name Could this be an angel? The Presence of God?